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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28715217">A Ghost Story</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmbrancsxx0/pseuds/emmbrancsxx0'>emmbrancsxx0</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>A Ghost Story [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Supernatural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>....kinda soulmates i guess, 19th Century, Alternate Universe - 19th Century, Alternate Universe - Past Lives, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Animal Death, Arranged Marriage, Bottom Dean Winchester, College, College | University Student Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester Hates Witches, Established Castiel/Dean Winchester, Established Relationship, Gardener Dean Winchester, Ghost Castiel (Supernatural), Haunted Houses, Hunter Dean Winchester, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Magic, Mutual Pining, POV Castiel (Supernatural), POV Dean, POV Dean Winchester, Past Lives, Period-Typical Homophobia, References to Depression, Reincarnation, Rich Castiel (Supernatural), Secret Relationship, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Soulmates, Suicide, Temporary Character Death, Top Castiel (Supernatural), Top Castiel/Bottom Dean Winchester, Witch Hunters, Witches, also i'm not putting a MCD warning because technically it's more of a, and idk how to tag this without sounding batshit but i'll try, get ready for a lot of tag contradictions, ok so this is essentially two fics in one</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-05-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 10:33:46</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>257,292</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28715217</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmbrancsxx0/pseuds/emmbrancsxx0</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel Novak has haunted his family's estate for 150 years, awaiting the return of his lost love. Upon their reunion, Dean Winchester learns of his past reincarnation. After the night of Castiel's resurrection, the two try to find out why they've been given a second chance. The answers may be hidden in the forgotten memories of Dean's former life - but sometimes the truth is better left buried.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Castiel &amp; Dean Winchester, Castiel/Dean Winchester</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>A Ghost Story [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2104971</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1514</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>455</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hello! By popular request, his fic is part 2/an expansion of the ficlet, <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26982979">The Heir &amp; the Groundskeeper: A Ghost Story</a>. (If you haven't read that, please do because it'll serve as a prologue.) Thanks so much to everyone who asked me to write more in this universe, and for being so patient with me! And, for all of you just discovering this fic now, thanks for reading!</p><p>Like I said in the tags, this is basically two fics in one - one in the present day and the other in the 1800s. The chapters will alternate timelines. Because of that, I'll be posting two chapters per week (one present/one past). <b>Posting will be on Sundays, probably around midday EST.</b></p><p>Big thanks to my wonderful betas, <a href="https://lassoted.tumblr.com/">Dee</a> and <a href="https://wanderingcas.tumblr.com/">Sam</a>, who are always here to support me and boost my confidence.</p><p>Check out the <a href="https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3I0yW9IhWGUpKiFxxhayOw">soundtrack</a> to this fic, and come say hi to me on <a href="https://valleydean.tumblr.com/">tumblr</a>!</p><p>(also, COVID doesn't exist in this fic because i think we could all use a break lmao. stay safe and healthy!)</p><p>
  <b>Also, please do not translate this work and/or post it to other sites.</b>
</p><p>Hope you enjoy!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p>
  <strong>Amherst, MA</strong><br/>
<strong>1868</strong>
</p><p>No one had heard him shouting. But he’d shouted until his voice was hoarse. There’d been desperation. It echoed through the empty halls of the grand manor, unheard by the sleeping staff tucked away in their quarters downstairs. The master of the house was away on business. Dean had made sure of all of that.</p><p>He’d waited weeks until Charles Novak got in his carriage and headed for Boston. He waited until night fell and the last candle was extinguished within the windows before slipping through the back of the house and tip-toeing along the familiar path to the east wing.</p><p>If all went according to plan, he’d be met with lightly packed bags—just the necessities—and an overcoat already adorned. He’d be met with an outstretched hand, reaching for his, and butterflies in his stomach. The railroad would take them to California. Their companion was already waiting for them at the depot, three tickets in hand.</p><p>Things hadn’t gone according to plan.</p><p>He could still hear his own phantom shouts rippling through the air, brandishing themselves inside the walls, even though his throat was cracked and his lungs breathless and he was rendered silent. <em>“Help! Somebody help us!”</em></p><p>He could still hear the tearing strain of fabric as he cut through it, and the thump that had toppled them both to the floor.</p><p>The desperation was gone now. The only thing curling inside of him was vast emptiness. Distantly, he felt the ache in his knees as he remained kneeling on the rug. He stared blankly at the ever-darkening bruises circling the neck of the body in front of him.</p><p>Cas was dead.</p><p>This wasn’t how it was supposed to be.</p><p>They were supposed to have a second chance.</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>2020</strong>
</p><p>
  <em>He’d chosen this.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He’d remember that, if he could focus on anything at all. Anything but the pain. It was a stinging, lingering sensation, and just when he got used to each new firebrand, another would carve him up.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Something else sliced into him, a scream bouncing off the wall. It took him a second to realize it had been ripped from his own throat.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He tore his eyes open, blinking wildly. He didn’t know why he’d done it. In truth, he hadn’t even known he’d been skewing them shut.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>But there—right above him. He was met with a set of blue eyes. He was sure of it.</em>
</p><p>Dean<em>, he heard, barely a whisper.</em></p><p>
  <em>There was pressure on his shoulder—and it burned. Wildfire raged through him instantly. The blue eyes were gone.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>But he’d been sure of it. It worked. It had worked.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He saw Cas.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He closed his eyes again. The pain was ebbing away. The wet, sticky heat on his skin was turning cold. Numbness was taking over, becoming complete…</em>
</p><p>Dean woke up with a start. He winced tenderly at the bright sunlight filtering through the shards of filthy glass on the windows. Thick dust was dancing in its rays. Ivy had snaked through the balcony door, climbing the walls and snaring into the termite-bitten holes before dying and mummifying. The years had not been kind to this house.</p><p>But the sight before him was overlaid with images of sturdy furniture, bright wallpaper, fine silks. He swallowed, trying to orient himself—trying to figure out where he was. <em>When</em> he was.</p><p>He’d had a dream. Choked cries, pain, emptiness. But all of it slipped away from him like water through his fingers. His shoulder was throbbing where it was wedged against floorboards.</p><p>He was on the floor between two dirty white sheets that he’d pulled off the moth-eaten furniture in the parlor. Slowly, he blinked at the bedframe—its cracked posts, tattered canopy; one leg was broken, causing the whole piece to shrug to the left. There wasn’t a mattress anymore. Dean had no idea what had become of it. Maybe it had decayed into dirt.</p><p>At his back, someone groaned, waking up. It was a familiar sound—as if Dean had heard it hundreds of times. It took him a moment to place it before he realized that it <em>was</em> familiar.</p><p>Cas.</p><p>Quickly, Dean looked over his shoulder. Dark brown hair was peeking out from under the white sheet. Cas squeezed his eyes closed before blinking them open. As they focused, the blue of them was deep and clear, and Dean wondered how he’d ever forgotten their exact shade.</p><p>Cas looked at him, brow scrunching, and then memory seemed to dawn on him. All traces of sleep gone, he lifted his head and looked around, taking in their crumbling surroundings.</p><p>“Um…” was all he said.</p><p>“Yeah,” Dean agreed. “Guess last night actually happened.” His gut reaction was that the events of last night—sneaking into the house, going up to Cas’ room, seeing his ghost, bringing him back into the physical world—had all been part of that crazy dream he could no longer remember. The one still scratching at the inside of his head.</p><p>Really, a dream made more sense than… <em>that</em>. Whatever the hell happened. Because it was just too weird.</p><p>“It would appear so,” Cas said, still squinting around the room. Eventually, his eyes landed on Dean, and Dean wasn’t ready for the warmth that spread inside his chest, pushing out to the tips of his fingers and toes.</p><p>It was real. Cas was real.</p><p>Cas’ expression softened, eyes sparkling. And no one had ever looked at Dean like that before. He asked, “What now, Dean?”</p><p>Dean had absolutely no idea how to answer that question. It was morning, which meant Charlie would be there soon and they’d have to leave the house, go into the real world. A world much different than the one Cas knew the last time he’d been alive.</p><p>They’d have to explain what happened to Sam, which may or may not end in Dean being unjustly carted off to the psych ward—which, hey, Dean wouldn’t actually be able to blame Sam for that.</p><p>And then what?</p><p>Dean gave a shallow laugh. “I got no friggin’ clue.”</p><p>Cas nodded, seeming to accept it. “Well, whatever happens next, at least we’re together.”</p><p>Dean tried to bite back a smile. It spread on his face anyway. He couldn’t explain it, but it felt like he could <em>breathe</em>. Like his lungs had been empty and his throat cracked, and now he was filled to the brim with oxygen. It was jarring and dizzying and, frankly, he didn’t know if he could cope. But he was no longer holding his breath. The pent-up pressure was gone.</p><p>“Yeah, there’s that,” he said, sliding his hand under Cas’ jaw. Cas tilted into the touch, and the sight caused a slew of memories to hit Dean like a freight train. It was the same image, only with different backgrounds: some in daylight, some by the light of the candle, some bathed in the silver of the moon.</p><p>Dean leaned in, his nose brushing against Cas’, his lips buzzing in the close proximity. Cas lifted his chin, sealing the kiss. Dean recognized the taste of him. It didn’t make any sense. Last night, he’d known exactly where to touch to make Cas shiver; he’d known just where to kiss and nip and tease him, and what sounds they’d elicit, which muscles would tense in response. And the scent of Cas’ skin? Dean had remembered it more clearly than his own name.</p><p><em>None</em> of it made sense. Part of him thought someone had slipped him acid and he was tripping balls.</p><p>But Cas had known all the places to touch Dean, too. He’d known all the ways to make him weak, nothing but a putty to be shaped and molded. He’d known things about Dean’s body that no one else did—things Dean himself hadn’t even discovered yet.</p><p>And Dean wanted to learn more.</p><p>He deepened the kiss and sighed into Cas’ mouth. Cas pressed his hands into Dean’s chest and gently guided him back down to the floor. Dean spread his knees, allowing for Cas to lay out on top of him, for their hips to slot together, a sturdy weight on top of him. Dean ran his hands down Cas’ spine, pulling at his shirt—made out of some material Dean didn’t even think they manufactured anymore. Cas was giving off needy, eager sounds deep in his throat.</p><p>And then something blared in the distance. It took a second for Dean to realize it was a car horn.</p><p>Cas blinked in confusion. “What is that?”</p><p>The noise came again, this time in the choppy tune of some classical song—one of the old ones that everyone knew but couldn’t name. Yesterday, Dean wouldn’t have been able to tell you what the hell it was. Now, his mind supplied him with a quick and certain, <em>Beethoven's Fifth</em>.</p><p>He guessed Charlie thought she was being funny.</p><p>“Shit,” he hissed, quickly looking at his watch. It was just after 7 AM. “It’s Charlie.”</p><p>“Your ride,” Cas inferred.</p><p>Dean nodded. He tried not to let on how fucking terrified he was—because it was actually happening now. The real world was returning. They had to go join it. “<em>Our</em> ride,” he corrected.</p><p>Even though he knew it was coming, Cas’ eyes widened fractionally, and only for a second, in the same icy fear creeping down Dean’s spine. But he steeled his expression and nodded, determined.</p><p>Dean tried to tell himself they’d be okay.</p><p>They got up, straightening out their clothes. Cas put on the velvet jacket he’d discarded last night and Dean searched for his flannel before shrugging into it. Briefly, he wondered if they should bring the sheets back downstairs to drape over the furniture, but he guessed it didn’t matter. Besides, a satisfying thrill of defiance went through him at the idea of letting Charles Novak’s precious home fall to complete ruin. Hell, Dean even wished he had his Zippo so he could burn the place to the ground once and for all.</p><p>Maybe later.</p><p>For now, he turned back to Cas, who looked like he was doing his damnedest to prepare himself for stepping outside this house for the first time in 152 years.</p><p>“Hey,” Dean said, capturing Cas’ attention. “You ready to leave this shithole once and for all?” He held out his palm in offering—and something told him he’d lived this moment before. Or maybe he hadn’t, but he was supposed to. It felt more like a dream than a memory.</p><p>The corners of Cas’ lips turned up in a shaky smile. He slipped his hand into Dean’s. “Yes.”</p><p>Dean’s hand tightened around his and they left the room together, threading through the hallways and precarious staircases. Dean climbed through the window he’d entered in, his boots stomping down weeds poking out of the dirt. Cas jumped out after him, and for a second he just stood there, breathing in the fresh air. His eyes closed, he tilted his chin upward to the crisp autumn sunshine. It basked over Cas’ face, and Dean wished he had a camera to capture the moment.</p><p>They headed down the hill together, through the bramble of the overgrown drive, and Dean couldn’t stop himself from scanning the grounds. His fingers itched, something meticulous inside of him telling him to start plucking weeds. He ignored it and kept his focus on Charlie’s ugly, bright yellow Gremlin idling outside the gate.</p><p>“What is that?” Cas asked. He was walking close, their shoulders brushing. Dean had never walked that close to anyone in his life before, but it was comfortable.</p><p>Dean tried not to roll his eyes and say <em>an eyesore</em>. “It’s a car. Kinda like a carriage, minus the horses. It’s got an engine.”</p><p>“An engine,” Cas echoed. “Like a locomotive?”</p><p>Dean shrugged and gave a noncommittal voice. “A little bit. It’s not coal powered.” Cas side-eyed him unsurely, causing him to chuckle. “Don’t worry, I’ll show you close up later.” Cars were easy. Dean would have a blast showing Cas how they worked. Which reminded him: “Man, just <em>wait</em> till you see <em>my</em> wheels. You’re gonna love her.”</p><p>He could picture it now: Cas riding shotgun in the Impala, Dean’s arm around his shoulders along the top of the bench seat, rock and roll on the radio. Cas would fit into his life without a hitch; Dean just knew he would.</p><p>When he looked at Cas again, there was a sated smile on Cas’ face, like he’d go anywhere Dean asked him to. “Okay, Dean.”</p><p>Dean climbed the fence first, his feet falling in the exact right holes and grooves, and he hadn’t even noticed that when he’d hopped the gate the night before. Cas came after him—and something about it was so familiar, jumping that fence together. Like they’d done it a hundred times.</p><p>They had, Dean realized.</p><p>Once they were on the other side of the gate, Charlie’s door swung open. She grinned widely at Dean from over the roof of her car. “You survived!” she exclaimed before eyeing Cas with some skepticism. “And you made a friend?”</p><p>Not for the first time, Dean realized that he’d actually have to tell the people closest to him what was going on, which was daunting. Maybe he could hold it off for at least a little while longer.</p><p>“Yeah, long story,” he said, walking up to the car’s passenger side. “Cas, this is Charlie. Charlie, Cas.”</p><p>Cas gave her a stiff nod. “Hello.”</p><p>“Hey,” she answered brightly. “I dig the outfit. Very vampire.”</p><p>Cas looked down at his clothes with perplexity. “Um…”</p><p>“Cas is riding with us,” Dean cut in before Cas could respond. He really hoped Charlie wouldn’t ask any more questions.</p><p>He was relieved when she said, “Oh, uh—okay. The more the merrier, I guess.”</p><p>Dean folded down the passenger seat so Cas could climb into the back of the car. While Cas was situating himself, Charlie whispered over the roof, “What’s with Mr. Darcy?”</p><p>Dean shot her a look and busied himself putting the seat back down. He slid inside while Charlie got behind the wheel. He glanced into the backseat, where Cas was looking around the interior of the car with interest, and did a double take when he belatedly realized Cas’ seatbelt wasn’t on. Usually, Dean wasn’t much of a stickler with that—probably because the Impala didn’t have any seatbelts at all, but there was no way he was risking Cas dying in a car crash just a few hours after he came back to life.</p><p>“Cas, seatbelt,” Dean told him, and he didn’t know why he expected Cas to understand that. Cas squinted at him in question, prompting Dean to drop his shoulders in a sigh. He glanced at Charlie, who, sure enough, was looking right back at him. She’d probably judge him so hard for this, but he told himself to get over it.</p><p>“Here,” he huffed, shifting around in his seat. He climbed halfway into the back, between the two front seats, and strapped Cas’ seatbelt across his waist. “You do it like that.”</p><p>Cas looked up at him, and Dean hadn’t realized how close their faces had gotten until that second. “Thank you, Dean.” Dean really wanted to kiss him again. He sat back in his own seat instead, pointedly ignoring Charlie’s questioning stare by putting on his own seatbelt.</p><p>Charlie eased the car back onto the empty road and headed back in the direction of campus. Dean was practically white-knuckling his knees in the foolish hope that they could get through this drive without talking.</p><p>Those hopes came crashing down when Charlie looked at Cas in the rearview mirror and asked, “So, Cas. Do you go to the college?”</p><p>Dean panicked a little, but maybe Cas had a better handle on the situation than he did, because he calmly said, “No. I used to. I… graduated years ago.”</p><p>“Neat,” Charlie answered conversationally. “What’d you study?”</p><p>Cas looked like he didn’t really understand the question. He said, “I received a well-rounded education.”</p><p>“Ah, liberal arts,” Charlie said sagely. “So, guess there’s no way of you and Dean running into each other on campus.” Dean wanted to grumble, because Charlie was seriously trying to get him a date with his century and a half old boyfriend. In any other case, he might have appreciated it. Charlie always had been a pretty good wingman.</p><p>“You didn’t tell me you attend college, Dean,” Cas said, voice pleasant and—fuck, proud. It was the same voice Dean’s mom had used when he got accepted to UMass Amherst in the first place, because everyone knew Sam was going to college, but Dean? He’d even surprised himself with that one.</p><p>“Uh, yeah—” Dean said a little bashfully.</p><p>“Oh, yeah!” Charlie said over him. “We’re seniors.”</p><p>“You’re a student, too?” Cas asked dubiously, and Dean’s stomach lurched suddenly. But before he could put a stop to it, Cas said, “But you’re a woman.”</p><p>The reaction was immediate. Charlie slammed on the brakes, making the seatbelt cut into Dean’s chest and waist as he was tossed forward. Cas’ eyes had gone wide at the suddenness of it, but it went unnoticed. Charlie had whipped around, and she was yelling, “What? What the hell does that mean?”</p><p>Cas tilted his head to the side innocently.</p><p>Dean needed to end this before Charlie started throwing punches. “Charlie! Char—Relax. He didn’t mean—”</p><p>“<em>Relax</em>? Excuse you!”</p><p>Dean held out his palm in a placating way, trying to get her to breathe. Her eyes were full of fury. “He didn’t mean it like that.” Dean knew he didn’t. Cas wasn’t one of those <em>women should stay in the kitchen</em> kind of guys, even in the mid-1800s. Dean looked back at him and quickly explained, “Girls can go to college now, okay?”</p><p>Cas’ eyes flickered from side to side as he processed the information.</p><p>Charlie, on the other hand, was looking at Dean like he’d grown an extra head. Which was probably fair.</p><p>“I’ll explain,” he promised before she could even ask the question. “Just… Drive. Please?” He tried for a weak smile.</p><p>She scowled back at him, half-annoyed, half-wary. But she turned forward again and started driving. Dean fell back into his seat and took a breath.</p><p>They hadn’t even lasted five minutes in the real world before Cas made a mistake.</p><p>“I didn’t mean to offend you. I’ve always been a proponent of education for women,” Cas said after a while, and he probably thought he was helping.</p><p>Dean rubbed at his eyes. He could feel a headache blooming. “<em>Cas</em>,” he said, “stop talking.”</p><p>Thankfully, Cas listened. No one said a word for the rest of the car ride.</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p> </p><p>Dean and Sam’s townhouse was a ten-minute drive from campus. It was inside a squat, matchbook house that had been divided into two units, tucked between a liquor store and another house-turned-apartment on the side of a fairly busy two-lane highway. It really wasn’t much look at.</p><p>Charlie pulled into the small gravel lot in the back of the house, where the Impala’s sleek black metal was glinting in the morning sun. The Subaru belonging to the woman who rented the other unit was there, too, which probably meant it was only a matter of time before they heard her kid start shrieking through the thin walls.</p><p>“All right, thanks for the ride, Charlie,” Dean said hastily, opening his door and taking off his seatbelt at the same time in the hope that Charlie had forgotten about the guy in the backseat.</p><p>“Oh, no you don’t!” Charlie said. She twisted her key out of the ignition, killing the engine. “You said you’d explain. Remember?” Not so subtly, she glanced back at Cas.</p><p>Dean huffed, defeated. “Fine. Let’s go inside.”</p><p>The three of them went through the back door, which opened up to a little living room with a couch, a record player, and a TV. The bathroom was off to the side, door closed, and Dean could hear the shower running. The space opened up to the kitchen, a smudged bay window over the sink, the front door next to the outdated oven, and a small table loaded with neat stacks of ignored junk mail in the center of the room. The floor wasn’t level, to the point where there was a tiny step leading to the sink on one side of the island counter and no step on the other. The bedrooms were on the small second level, up the precariously steep, carpeted steps tucked behind the wall on the opposite side of the kitchen.</p><p>It <em>really</em> wasn’t much to look at.</p><p>“Sammy?” Dean called.</p><p>“Hey!” he heard Sam yell back, voice echoing inside the tiny bathroom. “Be out in a sec!” Dean wanted to tell him to take his time.</p><p>It was Sunday, which meant Sam had gotten up with the sun to do an hour of his hippie yoga before going for a six-mile run. Personally, Dean was of the philosophy that Sunday was for sleeping in, but he was usually woken up at 9am anyway by when Sam used the blender to make himself a “breakfast smoothie.”</p><p>Dean turned back to the others, and he suddenly had no idea what to do next. Every step he’d taken so far that morning had been purposeful, but now he had a lull before the chaos that would definitely ensue when he told Sam and Charlie what was up. He blew out his cheeks. Cas was squinting around the room, distracted. Charlie was looking at Dean expectantly.</p><p>“Uh, okay. Breakfast?” Dean suggested, even though he really didn’t know if he could eat at the moment. “Cas, why don’t you, uh, sit tight?” Cas’ eyes moved back to him, and he nodded. He went over to the couch and perched himself on the cushion. Immediately, he picked up the TV remote on the coffee table and turned it over in his hands a few times like it was the most foreign object in the universe.</p><p>Dean let it go. He paced into the kitchen, peeling his jacket off as he went. Charlie was on his heels.</p><p>“Okay, are you gonna explain now or am I gonna have to force it out of you?” she demanded in a whisper.</p><p>Dean ran his hand down his face. Needing something—anything—to do, he went to the fridge and pulled out the eggs. Charlie followed his every step. “It’s kinda hard to explain,” he grumbled. He grabbed a frying pan from the drying rack and filled it halfway with water from the tap. Once it was on the stove, he snatched up the loaf of bread and popped a slice into the toaster.</p><p>“Try! Because either your new friend is a misogynist or he’s a time traveler from like, a billion years ago.”</p><p>Dean almost would have laughed at that if he wasn’t so freaked out.</p><p>Charlie slapped his chest with the back of her hand before folding her arms over her chest. “So, which is it?”</p><p>“Neither,” Dean insisted. He glanced down at the water on the stove, little air bubbles forming along the bottom of the pan. He took in a breath, trying to figure out the best way to say it. “Okay, you know that movie <em>Haunted Mansion</em>?”</p><p>“With Eddie Murphy?” she asked. “Duh. It’s a classic.”</p><p>“Right. And you know how they thought Eddie Murphy’s wife was the reincarnated version of that ghost dude from <em>Stardust</em>’s girlfriend?”</p><p>She shrugged, marginally shaking her head like she wanted him to get to the point. “Yeah?”</p><p>“Yeah.” He licked his lips, trying to buy himself time, because there really was no better way to word this. He gestured out with his palms. “I’m Eddie Murphy’s wife.”</p><p>Charlie stared at him blankly.</p><p>Dean held his breath.</p><p>And then, “Okay, I’m gonna need you to back up like a hundred feet.”</p><p>He grunted in frustration. The water was boiling. He cracked two eggs into it and idly flicked water over them just to busy himself.</p><p>He needed a cigarette. But he didn’t even smoke! Except, he <em>did</em> smoke. Didn’t he?</p><p>Other him smoked.</p><p>“Seriously, dude. You’re scaring me,” Charlie said, and there was something different about her voice. She was concerned. He could feel her eyes, big and imploring, on the side of his face, and he couldn’t bring himself to look back at her.</p><p>He didn’t know how to tell her that he was scaring himself.</p><p>“Uh, Dean?” Sam’s frantic voice suddenly came from the living room. Both Dean and Charlie whipped around. Sam was standing in the bathroom door, a towel around his waist, steam furling out of the threshold behind him. He looked ready for a fight.</p><p>Cas was standing up in front of the couch, blinking back at Sam. “You’re Sam,” Dean heard him say, but he was too busy shutting off the stove and rushing into the living room.</p><p>“Yeah? Who are you?” Sam shot back.</p><p>“Sam, it’s cool. He’s cool,” Dean said, holding out his hands. He situated himself between the two of them. Sam relaxed, but his brow pinched with confusion.</p><p>“Sam,” Cas said, taking a step forward. There was a smile lighting his eyes, and something numbing washed over Dean.</p><p>Cas knew Sam.</p><p>Did that mean Sam had lived before, too?</p><p>“It’s so good to finally meet you.” Cas sounded so damn earnest.</p><p>“Uh,” Sam stammered. His lips flickered into a quick, awkward smile, and then he returned his eyes to Dean.</p><p>“Sam, this is Cas,” Dean introduced, and he was acutely aware of just how little information that provided. “Look, go get dressed and I’ll explain.” He didn’t give Sam a second to argue. “Cas. Breakfast’s ready.”</p><p>Dean caught the last quizzical look Sam threw his way before he turned on his heels and headed back for the kitchen, brushing past Charlie on the way. Cas followed him, and Dean told him to sit at the table. While he plated the toast and eggs, he heard Sam’s trudge upstairs to his room, and it was a little easier to breathe.</p><p>His headache was quickly turning into a full-blown migraine.</p><p>Dean went to the table, where Charlie was sitting across from Cas, still glaring, probably thinking she was being threatening. He ignored her and plopped the plate in front of Cas. “Eat up.”</p><p>It wasn’t until then that he realized it was the first meal Cas would have in a really long time. The dude must have been starving. He stared down at the plate for a long time, then looked up at Dean, expression unreadable. And Dean got the feeling that he’d fucked something up.</p><p>“What?” he asked, already defensive.</p><p>“You remembered,” Cas said. “I prefer my eggs poached.”</p><p>Dean went still at that. He hadn’t even thought about it. Why did he make poached eggs? He didn’t like them that way. He always ate them fried, and Sam liked his scrambled. Dean <em>never</em> made poached eggs. He hadn’t even noticed he’d been doing it.</p><p>Dean fell heavily into the chair next to Cas and cradled his face in his palms. This was just too much. He didn’t even know why that was the final straw, but it was all hitting him now. Because of <em>eggs</em>.</p><p>“Dean?” Cas asked, his touch coming to Dean’s elbow. “What’s wrong?”</p><p>Dean sat back and tore his hands away from his face. He needed to pull himself together, because the last thing he needed was Cas worrying about him, too. “Nothing. I’m good.” Admittedly, he wasn’t even fooling himself.</p><p>Cas was still gripping him firmly. His brow was lined, eyes knowing. “You’re overwhelmed.”</p><p>That was an understatement.</p><p>“I’m good,” Dean repeated, and maybe it even sounded halfway convincing that time. Either way, Cas didn’t press the issue. He cut into his eggs with the side of his fork, the yellow yoke bursting and oozing out onto the plate.</p><p>Half a second later, Sam’s hastened down the steps, fingers brushing through his wet hair as he came into the kitchen. “Okay,” he said, taking a seat across from Dean. Briefly, he eyed Cas. “What’s up?”</p><p>“Dean’s having an episode,” Charlie answered promptly.</p><p>“A <em>what</em>?”</p><p>“I’m not—” Dean reminded himself to breathe. His reflex was to cock a sideways grin. “I’m not having an episode.”</p><p>Belatedly, he realized that he should have gotten himself a drink, or at least made a pot of coffee. “All right,” he said, squaring his shoulders like he was going into battle. He looked at Sam—hard, like he meant business—and then at Charlie. “This is gonna sound nuts. I mean, full <em>Cuckoo’s Nest</em>, but hear me out. So… You know that story—”</p><p>“Dean, I swear to God, if you start talking about <em>Haunted Mansion</em> again—” Charlie cut in.</p><p>Sam’s brow collapsed. “The Disney movie?”</p><p>“I don’t understand. What’s a Disney?” Cas asked the group in general.</p><p>“<em>The story</em>,” Dean interjected loudly, because they’d been on his case all morning, and now they were kind of stealing his moment, “about the house you guys dared me to stay in last night.”</p><p>“I didn’t do anything,” Sam maintained.</p><p>Dean held up his hand, because it didn’t matter—but also, he called BS on that. But that was beside the point. He powered through. “People said the place was haunted, right? Some guy who died waiting for his gay love to come back.” He ignored the offended look Cas sent his way.</p><p>Charlie and Sam both nodded. She prompted, “Yeah? And?”</p><p>“And,” Dean said, preparing himself, “turns out, it’s true. And it’s about us. He’s the dead guy. I’m the guy he was waiting for.” He really didn’t know how else to simplify it to make them understand. And he expected a reaction. <em>Some</em> kind of reaction. A laugh, at least, or yelling.</p><p>They both just stared at him. Cas stopped mid-chew.</p><p>It felt like forever before Sam huffed and started getting up. “Okay, you know what, Dean? I don’t really have time for this. I got a big test tomorrow—”</p><p>“It’s not a joke, Sam.”</p><p>Sam must have heard the seriousness in his tone, because he paused. Dean forced himself to look Sam in the eye, and he couldn’t decide what he saw there. Sam stayed hovering over the breakfast table.</p><p>“Okay, ha-ha, very funny,” Charlie said. “Now, seriously. Tell us.”</p><p>And that was kind of rich coming from someone who was obsessed with <em>Harry Potter</em>. “You’re the one who believed the house was haunted in the first place!”</p><p>“Yeah, <em>haunted</em>,” she answered airily. “But what? You expect me to believe that a ghost is sitting there eating eggs?”</p><p>Well, when she put it like that…</p><p>“He’s not—” Dean said lamely, “I mean, he’s not a ghost <em>anymore</em>.”</p><p>It wasn’t lost on him that Sam was being way too quiet.</p><p>“Dean, maybe I should explain,” Cas said, setting his fork down neatly next to his plate.</p><p>Dean rubbed at his eyes and tried not to laugh humorlessly. “I don’t think that’s a good—”</p><p>Cas just plowed on through: “Dean was hired as the groundskeeper at my family’s estate in 1866. He and I had relations—”</p><p>“<em>Relations</em>?” Dean had to object.</p><p>“Sex. Please don’t interrupt me.” Dean kind of wanted to die all over again but for real this time, especially when Cas kept going in his way-too-blunt way, “Regardless, this continued for a few years before the affair was discovered. Dean left abruptly. I died, and for some unknown reason, my spirit remained in the house until Dean found me and brought me back to life.”</p><p>And, yeah, okay, so it sounded stark-raving, foaming-at-the-mouth loony. But that wasn’t even the part that Dean was focused on, because, “Wait, you think I <em>left</em>?”</p><p>Cas slid his eyes to the side to look at Dean without turning his head.</p><p>Dean didn’t know how it happened, but his heart simultaneously sped up and stopped completely. “I didn’t <em>leave</em>, Cas.” He was a little foggy on the details, but he was pretty sure that’s not at all what happened.</p><p>Cas gave a resigned breath. “We don’t have to discuss this, Dean.”</p><p>“Oh, we’re <em>discussing</em> it! I did not leave you! Hell, I was trying to get <em>back</em> to you!”</p><p>He watched Cas’ eyes go far away, his expression blanking, like he was mulling over the information and not quite believing it. And it pissed Dean off—because, seriously? Cas died thinking Dean just up and left him? Cas <em>killed himself</em> over <em>that</em>? No way Dean was worth that, no matter what lifetime.</p><p>“Why the fuck would I leave you?”</p><p>“Okay, <em>enough</em>!” Sam roared, making everyone at the table jump slightly. Sam’s cheeks were red, whereas Charlie’s face was drained of all color. “Look, I don’t know what this is, Dean, but you have to tell me if this is a prank <em>right now</em>.” He stabbed a finger down at the floor.</p><p>He was scared. But Dean wasn’t about to lie to him. He put on a stern face and said, “Look me in the eye and tell me if I’m joking.”</p><p>And Sam did—for way longer than he needed to. Dean saw the exact moment the truth dawned on Sam.</p><p>He just didn’t expect Sam to quickly turn back to the stairs and announce, “I’m calling Mom.”</p><p>“Sam.”</p><p>“No! Dean.” Sam spun around, and he bit down on his jaw, visibly trying to stay calm. “I’m calling Mom, and then we’re going to the hospital, okay? Charlie, start the car.”</p><p>Charlie’s mouth was still hanging open, cheeks pale.</p><p>“Oh, come on! I don’t need to go to the psych ward.”</p><p>“<em>Psych ward</em>?” Sam shouted. He spread his arms out wide. “Dean, I’m <em>praying</em> you don’t need the psych ward! We’re going to get your stomach pumped!”</p><p>Dean stood up. He needed to put a cap on this. “I’m not drunk,” he said, walking around the table to meet Sam.</p><p>“Then you hit your head! Or—or you’re drugged!” Sam looked over Dean’s shoulder, eyes on Cas. “Did you <em>drug</em> him? Who the hell <em>are</em> you?”</p><p>“I didn’t—” Cas tried.</p><p>“You know what, I don’t care who you are,” Sam yelled. “Forget Mom. I’m calling the cops.”</p><p>“Don’t call the cops. Sam!” Dean grabbed his shoulders and spun him around to face him. “Don’t call the cops. Look, I know how this sounds! Fuck, part of me is <em>begging</em> you to call somebody to carry me out of here in a white jacket. But it’s the <em>truth</em>!”</p><p>Sam’s eyes were imploring, maybe even a little desperate. He shook his head, and his voice was thick when he said, “Dean…”</p><p>“Dean, maybe you should listen to him,” Charlie said, appearing at his side. He hadn’t even noticed her walk up.</p><p>Sam scoffed wetly. “Yeah.”</p><p>“Sam, you have to trust me,” Dean pleaded. He put both hands on Sam’s shoulders, forcing him to look at him. “Sammy. Just trust me.”</p><p>For a long time, everyone was quiet. It was a stalemate, and Sam was obviously trying to come up with the best course of action.</p><p>And then, from behind Dean, he heard Cas say, “Dean Winchester.”</p><p>Sam and Charlie’s eyes flickered over to him. Dean looked around, confused. Cas was holding an envelope from the pile of mail on the table. He was staring down at it like it was written in Ancient Greek—which, actually, would be okay because Dean somehow knew that Cas spoke Greek. “Yeah?”</p><p>“Winchester,” Cas repeated, clearly reading the name off the address. “All of these are addressed to Sam and Dean <em>Winchester</em>.”</p><p>Dean really didn’t know why that was such a big deal, especially right now. “And?” he demanded shortly.</p><p>Cas looked up at him. “Your name is Dean Wesson.”</p><p>Dean let his arms fall back to his sides.</p><p><em>Wesson</em>. His name was Dean Wesson—or it used to be. He remembered that now.</p><p>And he honestly couldn’t process that information at the moment. His brain already felt like a computer hard drive when the fan kicked on.</p><p>“Okay,” he said, overwrought. He scrubbed his hands down his face again. Christ, he needed a nap, but there was too much to do. He decided to focus on the one thing he might actually be able to handle. “Let’s just put a pin in this for now, huh? And, if you still wanna get me a psych eval tomorrow, I’ll go. But, first things first, he needs some new clothes.” He pointed his thumb behind him at Cas.</p><p>“What’s wrong with my clothes?” Cas asked, and it was a genuine question.</p><p>“You look like Dorian Gray,” Dean told him without looking around. Could just <em>one</em> thing not be an argument? He put his focus back on Sam and Charlie. “So, we’re gonna make a run. And we’ll figure out the rest later. <em>Okay</em>?”</p><p>Neither of them seemed comfortable with the plan—and, admittedly, Dean also had his doubts. But it was something, at the very least.</p><p>“We’re not done talking about this,” Sam warned, and Dean was sure of it.</p><p>Dean turned around, briefly making eye contact with Cas, and bee-lined to his room to get his car keys.</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p> </p><p>The first place they hit up was the Goodwill outside of town. Dean figured it would be a good place to get Cas’ new 21<sup>st</sup> century wardrobe started. They’d probably have to make a Target run for things like underwear, socks, and a toothbrush, but it was best to get the bigger stuff out of the way at first.</p><p>Dean was even more confident in that assessment when they walked into the Goodwill and Cas’ dusty, 1800s getup immediately attracted looks.</p><p>Dean steered him toward the men’s section, Sam in tow because, “Are you nuts? No way I’m leaving you alone with him, Dean.” He tried to gauge what size Cas might be by holding up a few shirts to his chest and judging what would fit him. He then flicked through the racks, piling flannels, t-shirts, button-ups, and jeans into Cas’ arms until his face was practically buried in used clothing. The whole time, Cas followed him, wide, overwhelmed eyes skirting around the store.</p><p>Before the guy had a panic attack, Dean decided, “Okay, why don’t you head to the fitting room and see what works? I’ll keep looking.”</p><p>“Fitting room?” Cas asked, still distracted as his gaze snagged on a pink-haired employing putting clothes back on the racks.</p><p>Dean pointed to the back corner of the store. “Through there. Just go into one of the booths and start trying stuff on. Me and Sammy’ll meet you there.” Cas gulped, like Dean had just asked him to diffuse a bomb, but Dean was pretty sure he could be left alone for a couple minutes. He slapped Cas on the back, rocking his frame slightly. “I believe in you.”</p><p>Cas put on a brave face, nodded, and started in the direction Dean had indicated. Dean watched after him, just to make sure Cas didn’t somehow get lost along the way. Maybe he was more nervous about letting Cas out of his sight than he thought he was…</p><p>“Dean.”</p><p>Dean looked around, met with Sam’s frowning face. Sam didn’t say anything else, but he looked like he was waiting for something.</p><p>“Yeah?” Dean said, shooting his brows up. “What is it, Sam?”</p><p>Sam scoffed, a kind of grimace coming to his face. “Blink if you’re being held against your will.”</p><p>Dean rolled his eyes and turned around again. He threaded through the racks, holding his hands out to feel the material as he went. He didn’t really know why he thought Sam would drop it. All Sam did was trail behind him, his chest basically against Dean’s back, and demanded impatiently, “Are we gonna talk about this?”</p><p>Dean forced a light chuckle. He realized they were in the coat section—which was probably a good thing. It was chilly out. Cas probably needed a coat. Idly, he plucked a few off their hangers for Cas to try on. “I dunno what you want me to say, Sammy.”</p><p>“What I want you to say?” Sam spread his arms out wide. “How about this is some kind of stupid joke that stopped being funny hours ago?”</p><p>Dean shook his head, trying not to let his frustration mount. Because Sam was right. Dean would probably be reacting the same way if the tables were turned. Hell, Dean would already be Googling shrinks.</p><p>“Dean!” Sam grabbed his shoulder, whirling him around. Dean let himself be manhandled. He sighed in the face of Sam’s puppy dog eyes. Softly, genuinely, Sam said, “You’re freaking me out.”</p><p>Dean <em>really</em> didn’t know what Sam wanted him to say. The only thing he could go with was the truth. He dropped his shoulders, gaze flickering to the canvas jacket on top of the pile of coats in his arms before returning to Sam’s. “Look, I get it,” he tried. “It’s ten kinds of fucked up. Believe me, I <em>know</em>. But you gotta trust me.”</p><p>Sam barely let the sentence finish before he gave another dry laugh.</p><p>“<em>Sam</em>,” Dean told him sternly. He reminded himself of his blood pressure. “I don’t expect you to believe me. But I’m not in danger or whatever. Okay?”</p><p>Sam shook his head.</p><p>“<em>Okay</em>?” Dean prompted again.</p><p>Sam still didn’t look happy about it, and he definitely wasn’t dropping the issue, but he allowed, “Okay.”</p><p>“Great!” Dean said, putting back on a chipper air. He about-faced and walked in the direction of the changing rooms. “Now, let’s see how he’s doing before he hurts himself.”</p><p>There was no one else in the fitting room when they entered, all the stall doors wide open except for one—and Dean really hoped Cas hadn’t actually gotten lost. “Cas?” he called, headed for the door.</p><p>“Yes, I’m—” Cas’ voice came from within, but he punctuated the sentence with a frustrated grunt.</p><p>Dean looked back at Sam, flashing a teasing smile, before turning around again. “You doing alright in there?”</p><p>“These clothes are very—” Another grunt, accompanied by some rustling. “I don’t like these metal contraptions, Dean. Where are the buttons?”</p><p>Right, Dean had kind of forgotten Cas had never seen a zipper before. He really had no idea when the things had actually been invented. He should probably intervene before Cas got his dick stuck in it like a toddler.</p><p>“Come on out,” Dean said. “Whatever you’ve got on is fine. Let’s see it.”</p><p>Cas remained quiet inside.</p><p>Dean shared another look with Sam. Sam blew out his cheeks and shook his head. Dean leaned into the door, tapping on it with his knuckles. “Cas?”</p><p>“Go away, Dean.”</p><p>Dean rolled his eyes up to the ceiling in an attempt to compose himself. “C’mon, sweetheart, open the door. I’m sure it’s fine.”</p><p>A memory flashed before his eyes, but he was pretty sure it was from his current life. He remembered being in a dressing room just like this as a kid, only he was inside the stall and his mom was outside knocking on the door, asking him if he was alright. Dean suddenly felt like a helicopter parent.</p><p>Before he could really come to terms with that, the stall door ripped open. Cas was giving him a death glare, but it was laced with self-consciousness. He was in jeans that were a little too baggy around the ankles and a purple sweater that was really making his eyes pop. His hair was a wild mess on his head. Around him, clothes were inside out, mostly scattered on the floor, like a hurricane had blown through. Hurricane Cas.</p><p>Dean couldn’t help the smile that cracked his cheeks. “Alright, looks good!”</p><p>“Does it?” Cas asked, checking himself out in the mirror again. He looked marginally less glum.</p><p>“Yeah.” Dean stepped back, gesturing for Cas to follow him out of the stall. Dean turned to Sam, asking, “Sam, what d’you think?”</p><p>Sam’s eyes flickered up and down Cas’ body cagily, but he said, tight-lipped, “Yeah, good.”</p><p>“See?” Dean exclaimed, placing his hand on the small of Cas’ back. He looked at the mess of clothes inside the stall. “Did you try on anything else or just throw a tantrum?”</p><p>Cas huffed but let the comment slide. “Yes, I… some things fit.”</p><p>“What about these?” Dean said, looking down at the jeans Cas was wearing. They seemed okay around the thighs. He yanked at the waist, frowning. Ignoring Cas’ hands trying to swat him away, he decided, “Yeah, okay. Not bad. Might need to get you a belt, but I think these are a winner.”</p><p>Cas nodded somberly. “If you say so.”</p><p>“Okay, so get what fits and let’s get out of here.”</p><p>Cas slumped back into the stall and began picking up some of the clothes. Dean spotted his old clothes among them and tried to decide whether to leave them, throw them in the dumpster outside the store, or burn them. He couldn’t imagine Cas was too sentimental about the duds he’d been in for over a century.</p><p>Which reminded Dean about the coats laden in his arms. “Oh, one more thing,” he said, holding out the pile. “Figured you’d need one of these.”</p><p>Cas inspected the pile, carding through the coats. Dean frowned when he passed up the black leather jacket he’d been hoping would catch Cas’ eye. Cas huffed, seeming almost annoyed by every single one of his options. He pulled one out at random, a boring tan trench coat, and slipped into it. It was boxy and a couple sizes too big.</p><p>“This one’s fine,” Cas said before going back into the stall to collect his things. Dean figured it probably wasn’t worth the argument.</p><p>In the end, they left Cas’ old clothes behind. The check-out line wasn’t too long, and it led them to an apathetic-looking employee who sighed in defeat when she saw the size of their pile. He added the ripped off tags from the items Cas was currently wearing, too. One by one, she rang up each item with a <em>beep</em> from the scanner.</p><p>Dean drummed his fingers against the counter, trying to ignore the way Sam was hovering over his shoulder like a momma bear protecting her young. He focused on Cas instead, who was currently messing with the waistband of his jeans like it was a torture device.</p><p>“What’s wrong?” Dean asked gruffly.</p><p>“This material is very stiff,” Cas complained.</p><p>“You’ll get used to them.”</p><p>Cas only glared. “How do you know?”</p><p>Dean was starting to get a headache on top of his previous headache. He forgot how bitchy Cas could be. Rubbing at his eye with his pointer finger, he warned, “Cas…”</p><p>“Maybe we should go back and find something else.”</p><p>Oh, hell no. Dean had just about run out of pushed smiles and cheerfulness for the day. “Relax. We’ll run them through the wash with fabric softener when we get home, alright? You can take ‘em off then.” Cas still seemed less than thrilled by that, and Dean thought he knew of a surefire way to placate him. He leaned in close to whisper in Cas’ ear, “Or, better yet, I’ll take them off for you.”</p><p>He pulled away fractionally, just enough to look up at Cas through his lashes. Cas’ eyes had darkened, his jaw moving in consideration, and Dean definitely liked the idea of putting Cas’ mind on something more productive than his new pair of jeans.</p><p>“Guys, the—She’s done,” Sam stammered out with annoyance from behind them. Dean glanced over at the cashier, who had finished ringing them up. She stared back boredly.</p><p>He shot her a grin. “This, too,” he said, grabbing Cas wrist and yanking his arm forward so she could see the tag dangling from his sleeve of his coat.</p><p>Sighing loudly, the cashier scanned the tag and said, “Total’s $57.03.”</p><p>Dean dug through his pocket and pulled out his wallet.</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p> </p><p>It was nighttime. Sam had already gone to sleep; but, before he did, Dean was amazed to find that he’d shown Cas how to work the shower. Cas was in the shower now, giving Dean a few minutes alone to—fuck, he didn’t know. Do breathing exercises?</p><p>Because this was the first time since he’d found Cas that he had a second to chill out. And he definitely wasn’t <em>chilling</em> out. It was all catching up to him now, no matter how much he tried to beat it back.</p><p>He’d lived before.</p><p>He’d been <em>alive</em> before. And he actually remembered it.</p><p>Well, a little bit of it, anyway.</p><p>Which was part of the problem, because he had no idea who that other Dean was. Dean could feel him rattling around his head—those memories, locked behind a door that Dean didn’t have a key for. He could hear scratching just on the other side.</p><p>But were those <em>his</em> memories?</p><p>Dean’s gut reaction was to say no. No, they belonged to someone else. Even if they shared a name and a face, he was different. A different person. He had no claim to who Dean was now.</p><p>But the excuse felt flimsy. It’d fall apart as soon as the metaphorical door splintered. Only, Dean didn’t know when that’d happen, and he needed answers now.</p><p>Ignoring the homework he’d totally forgotten to do and suddenly seemed of little consequence, he tucked himself away in his bedroom, his laptop open on his bed. Ridiculously, he’d searched “reincarnation” and expected to actually get results. The only hits Google gave him were the definition of the word, frequently asked questions, a few abstracts from journals he couldn’t read without buying (which he actually considered for a second), and a link to the Dali Lama’s official website—which, no.</p><p>He’d actually gone to page two of the search results, which meant he was really desperate, before clicking back to the Wikipedia page. It wasn’t exactly in-depth research, but at least it was a start.</p><p>The door creaked open, and Dean lifted his eyes to see Cas peeking his head through the door. When their gazes met, a soft, almost timid kind of smile came to Cas’ face. He opened the door fully, clad in a pair of boxers and an old Zepp t-shirt Dean picked out at the consignment store. The sight of him made a grin spread onto Dean’s cheeks, and he recalled Cas sporting a long, striped nightshirt—the ones that basically looked like gowns. The memory almost made Dean laugh.</p><p>“Hey, look at you,” he said brightly as Cas closed the door softly behind him.</p><p>He paced further into the room, flapping his arms a little and looking down at his body. “I still don’t know what this shirt means.”</p><p>Dean’s eyes flickered down to the Icarus logo. He kind of couldn’t wait to make Cas listen to rock and roll. It was a hell of a lot more awesome than the orchestral music of back in the day. “You got a lotta catching up to do, pal.”</p><p>Cas nodded, briefly appearing overwhelmed. He raised his brows at the laptop resting on the comforter. “What are you doing?” he asked, pacing to the bed and leaning over Dean. Dean tried not to blush at the title of the Wikipedia page.</p><p>“Just, uh… It’s a laptop,” he said, because that was easier than admitting he was freaking out.</p><p>“A laptop,” Cas echoed slowly, squinting at the screen.</p><p>“Yeah, a computer. It’s like—” Actually, maybe explaining this was harder than he’d thought. He’d never had to tell anyone what a computer or the internet was. He scratched at his head, trying to avoid admitting he mostly used it for porn. “Books and things, I guess. You can get information from it. Kinda anything you want. Here, look—”</p><p>He clicked back to the Google homepage and typed in <em>Led Zeppelin</em>. He clicked on the first search result, a Youtube video of “Stairway to Heaven.” Cas’ frown deepened when an ad for Doritos started playing.</p><p>“That’s, uh,” Dean said, “you can buy stuff on it, too.” When it gave him the option, he skipped the ad.</p><p>Cas leaned in further, pushing into Dean’s personal space, and Dean found himself holding his breath and waiting for the verdict. “That’s extraordinary,” Cas said after a second. And then, “How does it work?”</p><p>“Hmm?” Dean licked his lips, realizing he was totally out of his depth. “It… I dunno. People just post stuff and other people can look it up.”</p><p>“Other people use this machine?”</p><p>“Well, not this one specifically. They’re all connected.”</p><p>Cas stood up again, seeming more confused than when they started this conversation—which was fair, because Dean realized there was a lot of stuff about computers he didn’t know. How the hell was he supposed to help Cas navigate the 21<sup>st</sup> century if he didn’t have any answers?</p><p>“You’ll… get the hang of it,” he said, trying to sound more optimistic than he felt. He closed the laptop, the music abruptly cutting off, and placed it on the floor.</p><p>When he looked back up, Cas said, “You were reading about reincarnation.” It wasn’t a question, but it kind of sounded like one.</p><p>Dean nodded, not really knowing why he was embarrassed.</p><p>Cas sat down on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping. “How much do you remember?”</p><p>Dean shrugged, finding it a little hard to look Cas in the eye. “I dunno. Bits and pieces, I guess. Some things just hit me out of nowhere and other stuff—it’s still fuzzy. It’s feelings, mostly.” Cas stayed quiet, listening. It prompted Dean to keep going, even though he wasn’t really sure how. “I mean, I <em>remember</em> my mom died, right? And I remember how that felt. But she’s not dead.” He scoffed out a laugh. “She’s back in Kansas. I talked to her yesterday. She’s <em>fine</em>.”</p><p>His brain felt like it was shorting out. He ran his palm down his face, doing his best to collect himself. “I just have no idea what’s <em>my</em> life and what’s…” He didn’t even know how to finish that sentence. He blinked back up at Cas, a question sitting on the tip of his tongue. All day, he’d been too afraid to ask it. He didn’t even really know how to phrase it.</p><p>Haltingly, voice small, he said, “Am I… How similar am I—you know—to… to him?”</p><p>At first, it didn’t look like Cas understood. But he must have figured out Dean’s meaning, because he dipped his head to keep eye contact and assured, “Dean, you <em>are</em> him.”</p><p>“No, I—I know.” Did he? He wasn’t so sure. Logically, he knew, but not viscerally. Or maybe it was the other way around. “But am I, like… still the same guy? I dunno. You know what I mean! Just… What was he like? What was <em>I</em> like?”</p><p>Cas moved his eyes around the room in thought, like he was expecting to find the answer written on the walls. “Abrasive,” he said.</p><p>Dean jerked his head back. He really hadn’t expected that, even though, okay, it was true. “Wow, right outta the gate with that one. Thanks, Cas.”</p><p>Cas didn’t seem fazed. “Well, you are. And stubborn. Slightly judgmental.”</p><p>“O-okay. That’s—” Dean huffed. If he didn’t feel like shit before, he definitely did now.</p><p>“And selfless,” Cas then said. “Kindhearted. Passionate. Brave. Determined. Loving. You’re <em>good</em>, Dean.” He reached forward, blanketing Dean’s hands with his own. His hands were cold. Cas always had cold hands. Dean remembered that now. “You’re a good man.”</p><p>Dean looked down at his lap, doing his best to breathe. He didn’t know why he felt the need to chuckle and deflect, “Wow, then you definitely got the wrong guy.”</p><p>Cas only shook his head. “No, Dean. I don’t.”</p><p>Dean didn’t know what to do with that except change the subject. “And this isn’t weird to you? Like, at all?”</p><p>“Dean, I was a ghost for a century and a half. This is significantly <em>weird</em>,” Cas told him, and at least there was that. Dean tried to remember he wasn’t alone in all this insanity. He had Cas.</p><p>And Cas was really the only thing in all of this he was totally sure of.</p><p>Dean loved him. He loved him so much, it had almost knocked him off his legs a few times during the day. Because, yesterday, Dean hadn’t even known Cas had existed, and now his chest felt too small for the avalanche of emotion that came tumbling down on him every time he so much as looked at Cas.</p><p>“But you’re here now,” Cas said, voice nothing but a whisper. He dropped his eyes. Words had never really come easy for him, especially when he had to say them out loud. It was something the two of them had in common. But still, he said, “And I… I missed you.” And that meant more than Dean could probably ever fathom.</p><p>Dean nodded, recalling that feeling he’d had all his life, like holding his breath. “I think I might’a missed you, too,” he admitted, “without knowing it. Or something.”</p><p>When he met Cas’ eyes, there was a smile in them. They met in the middle in a kiss, and Dean savored it. Cas leaned back fractionally, asking, “Do you remember that?”</p><p>Dean hummed, grin impish. “I dunno. Think you’re gonna have to refresh my memory.”</p><p>Cas tilted his head back in, and Dean could feel his smile against his lips. He cradled Cas’ jaw in his hands, the stubble scratching at his palms, and it reminded him that they should probably buy him a razor. But it was nice for now. Because it meant Cas was alive, and he’d been alive for a full day, long enough for his facial hair to get prickly.</p><p>When Dean slowly leaned back on the mattress, Cas chased after him, keeping their lips sealed. He crawled on top of Dean, straddling his hips, his tongue mapping out the inside of Dean’s mouth, reacquainting himself. Gentle rumbling noises were lifting up out of his throat. Before he pulled away, Dean lightly pulled his bottom lips between his teeth.</p><p>He watched Cas sit up, shifting himself more onto Dean’s hips and grinding down onto the growing erection in Dean’s boxers. A grunt punched out of Dean. He gripped at Cas’ thighs to control himself.</p><p>Cas lifted his shirt over his head and tossed it to the floor, allowing Dean’s eyes to light over the faded tan on his skin, his sharp collarbone, the flush on his chest, his blush-pink nipples. Dean guided his palms up Cas’ sides, making him shudder, eyes falling closed, mouth opening. He picked himself up by the elbows so he could line Cas’ collar and neck with his mouth. Cas tilted his head to the side, giving Dean more room to explore.</p><p>“Dean,” Cas complained after a while. Dean leaned back, looking up into his blown-out pupils. “Your shirt.”</p><p>Dean chuckled softly. “Impatient,” he teased, and Cas raised a brow at him, probably because he knew it made Dean go weak in the knees. He took off his shirt, tossing it away. “Happy?”</p><p>“Yeah.” Cas dipped down, planting his lips in the center of Dean’s chest and tonguing his way upward. Dean’s eyes skewed closed in concentration, and he did all he could to block everything else out. But, just like last night, he couldn’t help but wonder how his body differed from that other Dean’s. Maybe he had a few less scars, or a few more. Maybe a couple of added pounds. Was there a freckle or two out of place? Anything that would make him different, other?</p><p>Dean wasn’t really sure what answer he hoped for on that one.</p><p>But then Cas nipped at his Adam’s apple, and Dean’s mind blanked of everything else. He nosed at Cas’ temple to capture his lips. His fingers were between the divots between Cas’ ribs, tapping out some idle tune. Cas’ hand stroked upward from Dean’s elbows, landing on his shoulders.</p><p>And, suddenly, a single word popped into Dean’s head out of absolutely nowhere. It brought with it the imagery of sunlit hair. He leaned back, blinking up at Cas.</p><p>“Dean?” Cas eyes, a vertical line forming on the bridge of his nose. “What’s wrong?”</p><p>“Nocturne,” Dean tried to say, the word sticking in his throat.</p><p>Cas shook his head. “What?”</p><p>“When we met,” Dean told him. “You were playing a Nocturne on the piano.”</p><p>Cas’ eyes flickered downward, moving in thought. “Was I?”</p><p>“You don’t remember?”</p><p>Shaking his head, Cas’ eyes swept back up to his. “I remember wanting Zachariah to go away.”</p><p>Dean snorted. Zach—that’s right! “Shit, I was kind of okay forgetting about that dick.”</p><p>Cas rumbled with laughter, but Dean thought his happiness went deeper than the memory of a butler and piano music. The same giddiness was inside of Dean, just to have remembered something else. Cas’ smile dimmed somewhat, turning into wonderment. He placed his hand on Dean’s jaw and stroked the apple of his cheek, and Dean couldn’t stop staring at him.</p><p>It felt like he’d dreamed all of this up; and, at the same time, it was like nothing else was real.</p><p>“Dean,” Cas said, awestruck, certain.</p><p>He kissed Dean again. Dean wrapped his arms tight around Cas’ middle and pulled him down to the bed.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>reminder that i'm posting two chapters a week, so chapter two is already up!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>1866</strong>
</p><p>September was the best time to plant. Or, at least it was for certain crops. That’s what Dean had been told six years ago during that one season he’d labored on a farm outside Boston. He had no idea if the same principle applied to flowers and shrubbery. He guessed that was something he’d have to learn on the job.</p><p>But, apparently, he’d faked knowledge well enough during his interview a month ago, because he’d received a letter shortly after telling him he’d gotten the job. It had been bittersweet, packing up his belongings and leaving Sam behind in the city to journey all the way to Amherst, but they needed the money. Besides, the position wasn’t permanent. It was just to pay Sam’s way through college. After he graduated, Dean didn’t know what would happen.</p><p>Maybe they’d stay in Boston. Maybe they’d go back to Kansas. Sam even talked about California, which Dean couldn’t exactly object to. Anywhere was fine, because Boston wasn’t the same now that Dad was gone and never coming back. They didn’t even get a body.</p><p>And Kansas? Dean barely remembered it. He hadn’t called it home since he was four years old. Since that night…</p><p>“Down these stairs are the household staff quarters.” The butler, Zachariah, was giving Dean the grand tour—or, at least, the tour of the places he’d need. Dean kind of doubted he’d ever have reason to go upstairs, even though “reason” had never really stopped him before. But it was still pretty grand. The grounds alone, seventy whole acres, were more than any one man could keep up with, and the manor was the biggest house Dean had ever seen in his life. That included the Southern plantations his regiment had seized during the war.</p><p>“Those who live on the premises reside there,” Zachariah explained, gesturing down a hidden stairwell on the east wing of the house that led down to the basement. He turned back to Dean, a self-important smile fixed on his face. “As head of the staff, my apartment is located on the lower floor of the west wing. If you need to find me after hours, that’s where I’ll be.” It was a hell of a brag for someone who still lived in a basement. Dean did his best not to say that joke out loud.</p><p>He followed Zachariah further down the hallway, still laden with his belongings on his back. He really thought he’d be able to drop them off. Adjusting the strap of his bag on his shoulder, he pointedly said, “Okay, great. Is that where I can put my luggage?”</p><p>“No. As groundskeeper, you’ll live in the carriage house. I’ll take you there after the tour.”</p><p>Dean figured it was okay to glower since he was walking behind Zachariah. He pinched his lips, cheeks dimpling in annoyance.</p><p>Up ahead, a maid was dusting a framed portrait on the wall. She had long blonde hair pulled back, but a few wayward curls hung around her face. Zachariah picked up his pace a little to reach her and held up one finger to gain her attention. “Ah, Miss Harvelle. Allow me to introduce our newest addition.”</p><p>The woman—girl, really, because she couldn’t have been older than Sam—went taut in the shoulders. She halfway turned to face Zachariah. Then, when her eyes fell on Dean, her expression became interested and she turned fully. She was nice to look at. Dean flashed her his best grin.</p><p>“This is Joanna Harvelle,” Zachariah was saying. “She’s been with us… Oh, about a year now. Miss Harvelle, this is our new groundskeeper, Mr. Wesson.”</p><p>Her brows dipped slightly, the pleasantness of her expression flickering. “Wesson?” she confirmed.</p><p>Dean nodded. “Yeah, that’s right.” He offered her his hand. “Call me Dean.”</p><p>She inspected him for a second, and then, “Okay. Dean, it is.” She transferred her duster to the opposite hand and shook his. “My friends call me Jo.”</p><p>“Am I a friend?” he asked easily.</p><p>She withdrew her hand slowly, eyeing him up and down. “Nah,” she decided, biting back a smirk.</p><p>Dean ran his tongue across his teeth, forcing down a smile of his own.</p><p>“Okay, <em>well</em>,” Zachariah said pointedly, butting back in. “Mr. Wesson, if you’d like to continue?”</p><p>Dean really didn’t want to, because it was pretty much a guarantee that he’d like Jo way more than Zachariah. But duty called, he guessed. Jo went back to her task, and Dean was led further down the hall. Feeling a tingle at the back of his neck, Dean looked at Jo over his shoulder. She was staring at him, mouth pinched in thought. He only saw a flash of it before she quickly looked away again.</p><p>So far, she was the only person besides Zachariah that Dean had seen. It wasn’t like he expected to meet the master of the house on his first day—or maybe at all—but he expected to see <em>someone</em>. It was such a big house but it felt like no one actually lived in it.</p><p>He recalled the portrait over the fireplace in the entrance foyer. “So, where’s Mr. Novak?” he asked, briefly wondering if that was any of his business. But he was curious. He knew Charles Novak ran a publishing company, and Dean had no idea there could be so much fortune in books.</p><p>“You just missed him,” was the answer. “He left early this morning on business to New York. He’ll be gone for a few weeks. Always is.”</p><p>From the way Zachariah said it, it seemed like that was a common occurrence. Dean really didn’t see the point of such a giant house just so the owner could be absent all the time. “Makes your job kind of boring, huh?”</p><p>“Trust me, there’s still <em>plenty</em> to do,” Zachariah said, and he sounded a little touchy. “Besides, Mr. Novak’s son remains in the manor.”</p><p>“He has a son?” Dean asked, a little taken aback by the information.</p><p>“That’s right. And a daughter, but she and her husband live in Philadelphia. She visits on occasion.”</p><p>“What about <em>Mrs.</em> Novak?”</p><p>“Oh, she passed years ago.”</p><p>Curious, Dean wanted to ask how, but he guessed that was none of his business. He’d probably find out through gossip sooner or later, anyway. Hired help liked to talk.</p><p>Zachariah led him into the kitchen. Even from the hallway, Dean could smell the mouth-watering scent of chicken and herbs. He’d barely eaten anything that wasn’t dried meat and provisions on his two-day trip to Amherst. His stomach lusted after the scent.</p><p>The kitchen was a large room with spacious counters, and a giant butcher block in the center where someone was currently slicing onions. Another man, burly and bearded, was stirring a large pot on the cast iron stove. The room bustled, staff coming to and from the scullery, carrying dishes and spices. It was a few degrees warmer than the hallway.</p><p>“Here we are. The kitchen,” Zachariah said, pretty needlessly. Dean had a feeling this guy just liked to hear himself talk. He’d been the same way during the interview, and Dean had to pretend to be interested while he went on and on about the proper way to fold a suit. “It’ll be at your disposal at all times. That is, barring preparation for the Novaks’ meals and in the event of a dinner party or event, of course. And Mr. Novak does like his events!”</p><p>The man at the stove looked over his shoulder, blue eyes inquisitive as they landed on Dean. He gave a welcoming grin. “Well, well. Fresh blood?” the man called, voice drawl and Southern. He wiped his hands on his stained apron as he walked over. “You didn’t tell me I’d have a new taste tester, Zach.”</p><p>Dean quirked a smirk at the nickname, especially since the butler didn’t seem to appreciate it very much. The cook held out his hand in offering. “Name’s Benny. I’m the head chef here.”</p><p>Dean took his hand, and it was still hot from the heat coming off the stove. “Dean. I’m the new groundskeeper.”</p><p>“Well, then you’re sure to work up an appetite.”</p><p>Dean snorted. “You got no idea. Don’t tell anyone, but I kind of miss southern cooking.”</p><p>“Lucky you, I was taught by Louisiana's finest,” Benny told him easily, crossing his arms over his chest.</p><p>“I’ll try not to hold that against you.” Behind Benny, someone opened up the oven and pulled something out. Dean brows popped hopefully as he eyed the steaming crust. “Is that pie?”</p><p>Benny looked around briefly. “Apple cranberry. New recipe I’m tryin’ out.”</p><p>Dean gave an excited breath. “Well, hell, I’ll be your taste tester right now!” It made Benny guffaw cheerfully, and it also caused Zachariah to clear his throat.</p><p>“Hate to interrupt, but if you’ll follow me to the carriage house?”</p><p>“Right,” Dean said. He should probably get settled. He’d sneak back for some pie later on. “Nice meeting you, Benny.”</p><p>Benny shot him a wink. “Likewise. Welcome to the team.”</p><p>The carriage house was in back of the house, sitting along the edge of the wooden area that stretched on for miles until the trees sloped up the mountain range. The stables were close by, with men brushing and exercising the horses at that very moment, and the garden shed sat between the two structures.</p><p>Zach led Dean along the dirt drive, and on the way, Dean got a better view of the grounds. There were six fountains, ten gardens, a gazebo, rose bushes, ivy, and about a million sculpted hedges. It was a lot of work. Dean was expected to keep all of it in tip-top shape—not just with planting and trimming, but by keeping the squirrels and foxes away, by keeping the trees free of beehives and wasps, and making sure the lawn furniture and benches were clean.</p><p>Dean didn’t mind it so much. He liked to stay on his feet, and working with his hands definitely beat pushing papers all day like Sam was trying to do.</p><p>He was brought up the outside staircase on the side of the carriage house to the apartment on top. It was one room, a single bed with a wooden frame on one side, a bookshelf, a table and chairs, and a dresser. Sitting in the corner was a wash basin and a potbelly stove. It wasn’t much, but it was the lap of luxury compared to some of the places Dean had rested his head. Besides, there were big windows that let in a lot of light.</p><p>Behind him, Zach clapped his hands together in finality. “Well, then. If you don’t have any other questions, I’ll leave you to it.”</p><p>Dean dropped his luggage on the bed with a thud, putting a few creases into the made up blankets. He tried to think of anything he wanted to ask, but nothing came to mind. Zach had already shown him what washrooms he could use in the main house, but he figured a bath could wait a day or two. He mostly just wanted to sleep off his journey in; then, he could do some wandering around to familiarize himself with the place.</p><p>“No, I think I’m good,” he said, turning to the butler.</p><p>Zach was still standing in the doorway. “Excellent. You know where to find me if you change your mind.”</p><p>Dean snapped his fingers and pointed at him. “Private apartment in the west wing’s basement,” he teased, expecting a laugh.</p><p>Zach’s face lined as he frowned. “Yeah,” he said. Then, he was gone, closing the door behind him. Dean heard his footfalls going down the stairs.</p><p>He stood there momentarily, just looking around. He’d never had his own room before, and he hadn’t really expected to have one in the manor. But, now that he did, he was wondering how he should spruce the place up. He guessed he had plenty of time for that.</p><p>Idly, he walked toward the window that faced the back of the manor. The glass and pristine stone chimneys of the house were glinting in the sunlight. Dean brought his eyes lower, surveying the grounds between the main house and his apartment. A circular patio and garden rested in the center, flanked by a couple of fountains depicting cherubs playing harps.</p><p>Straight ahead in the close distance sat a proud oak tree with a thick trunk. Its long, shady branches stretched out far, some of them coming close to brushing the carriage house’s roof. His gaze traveled down the base of the trunk, to the giant, raised roots buried under the grass.</p><p>Someone was tucked away inside the nook that the roots provided on the side of the tree facing away from the manor. Dean couldn’t see him fully, just a pair of trouser-clad legs and polished black shoes; but he almost looked like he was hiding. And maybe it was even a favored hiding spot.</p><p>Dean definitely wouldn’t rat him out. It was none of his business, anyway.</p><p>He turned away from the window and paced to the bed, set on unpacking his things so he could sleep.</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p> </p><p>Dean had barely been at the manor for a week before he got a letter from Sam. Sure, he’d written to Sam on his first day, letting him know he’d managed to stay alive on the trip in; but he hadn’t expected Sam to write him back so soon. But, that morning, someone had found Dean on the grounds and handed him the letter, saying it was from Boston. And that could only mean Sam. An excited trill went through Dean as he shoved the letter into his pocket.</p><p>It was late afternoon before Dean got the chance to read it. It was encroaching on dinnertime, and Dean’s stomach was already grumbling from a day of pulling weeds and trimming the lawn (or, at least, a section of a section of the lawn). He stomped his boots on the granite front porch, doing his best to knock off the loose dirt caked onto them, before deciding it was good enough and stepping through the door. The entrance foyer was empty, but Dean thought he saw a flash of someone walking into the upstairs corridor of the east wing. He barely glimpsed the tails of the man’s overcoat before he was gone.</p><p>Either way, it didn’t matter, because Dean had a minute alone. He walked to the grand staircase, pulling off his filthy work gloves with his teeth and using them to wipe sweat from his brow while he went. He left a trail of crumbling dirt on the carpet. Ignoring it, he sat down on the bottom step and pulled out the letter.</p><p>Sam’s scrawl was on the envelope, which felt a little heavier than it should have for a simple letter—which was a good thing. It meant Sam had sent over the items Dean had asked for.</p><p>He ripped into it, pulling out the folded page first.</p><p><em>Dean,</em> </p><p>
  <em>Glad to hear you made it to Amherst in one piece. Bobby had money on you getting lost halfway there, so thanks for making me two dollars richer.</em>
</p><p>Dean rolled his eyes, muttering about the lack of faith their “uncle” had in him. He read on:</p><p>
  <em>I’m surprised they gave you your own apartment on the grounds. If it really is bigger than our place here in Boston, I’ll have to pack up and move out there with you. Make sure it’s protected well enough, okay? Enclosed are the cloves you asked for, and I put in some lime root, too, just in case you haven’t found a place that sells it in Amherst yet. The rest should be easy enough to find, especially in a big kitchen like that.</em>
</p><p>Dean rested the letter on his lap for a second while he overturned the envelope into his hand. A few brown cloves tumbled out into his palm, along with some spidery dried roots. And something else, too.</p><p>He blinked down at the silver ring. He’d left it in his drawer in Boston for safekeeping. It’s not like he would chance wearing it while tilling dirt. Besides, he’d gone to the manor thinking he’d be sharing a living space, and there was no way he’d risk getting it stolen by a staff member he didn’t even know.</p><p>Even during the war, Dean kept it on a chain around his neck for fear of it becoming lost or stolen. Plus, he just wanted it around. Not because it was good luck. Hell, it was probably the furthest thing from it. But, if he was going to die in some bloody battle, he was doing it with his mother close to his heart.</p><p>He swiftly picked up the letter with one hand again.</p><p>
  <em>Figured you might want Mom’s ring, too. I can picture your face when you realized you’d left it behind.</em>
</p><p>“C’mon, Sammy, you sent it through the mail?” Dean scolded aloud, hoping Sam could just <em>feel</em> his annoyance across the miles that separated them. But he guessed it was too late now. He’d keep it safe enough now that he had his own apartment.</p><p>Sam’s letter continued:</p><p><em>Everything’s all right here. The term began last week, and so far the lessons aren’t anything I can’t handle. The other students are friendly enough. By the time you get this, I’ll probably have already taken my first exam. I hope I did well.</em> </p><p>Dean smiled at the letter, pride blooming in his chest. He was sure Sam had done better than well.</p><p>
  <em>Tell me more about the manor. I can’t believe you haven’t explored all the grounds yet! They can’t be that big! Anyway, isn’t that kind of your job?</em>
</p><p><em>Your brother,<br/></em> <em>Sam</em></p><p>Dean read the letter over one more time. He missed the kid. This wasn’t even the longest they’d been apart, but it wasn’t war separating them this time. It was life. Normal life. Neither of them ever had that, no matter how much Dean tried to give some semblance of one to Sam. And now, there they were, trying it out alone. Dean wondered if this was all one big mistake; if he should pack his bags now and head back to Boston.</p><p>“What’s your problem?” someone shouted suddenly, knocking Dean quickly from his thoughts. Jo’s voice bounced off the high ceiling. Dean’s neck snapped to her, confused and taken aback at first—until he saw what her wide eyes were directed toward.</p><p>Shit. He’d tracked in more dirt than he thought.</p><p>“Fuck,” he hissed, getting to his feet. He gestured toward the carpet with the letter. “I can clean that.”</p><p>Jo crossed her arms tightly and stomped toward him, and she probably thought she looked intimidating. He had at least two feet on her. She mostly looked hilarious, but Dean could see how someone else might feel threatened.</p><p>“Yeah, you better,” she warned. “I just cleaned these carpets last week. You wanna trail in mud, at least do it on the hardwood, got it?”</p><p>Dean ducked his head, feeling most scolded and amused. “You got it, ma’am.”</p><p>Jo eyed him with annoyance for another second before her eyes fell to his hands. She clocked the letter, then the herbs and ring in his other hand. He tightened his fist around them.</p><p>“What’s with the cloves?” she said, nodding her angular chin at his fist. Dean licked his lips, trying to come up with an excuse. Before he could, she accused, “And if you tell me you stole those from my stash…”</p><p>He blanched. “Your stash?” Jo was a maid. She didn’t work in the kitchens—and, even then, cloves weren’t exactly something Dean thought people stocked up on.</p><p>She shrugged innocently. “They help with mold.”</p><p>“Oh.” Dean shoved his hand in his pocket, dropping the herbs and ring into it. “Uh, no. My brother—he sent me some for—for spiced rum.”</p><p>Jo lifted a teasing brow. “Uh-huh. You know there are spice markets outside of Boston, right?”</p><p>“Well, if I ever find my way off these grounds, I’ll be sure to check them out,” he assured her.</p><p>She must have figured that was enough ridicule for one day, because she sat down on the step, seeming to settle in. “So, how’s he doing? Your brother. Sam, right?”</p><p>Dean looked down at the letter. He folded it up, tucked it into his back pocket. “Yeah, good. Had his first exam…” Dean tilted his head to the side, considering, “ever.”</p><p>“I thought you said he was in college.”</p><p>Dean sat down next to her. It was kind of hard to explain. Neither of them had a formal education. They would have. Dean only just vaguely remembered his own getting started—a tutor teaching him the alphabet. He couldn’t picture his face anymore. Sam never got any of that, but he’d always been the smart one—always finding time to read, even on the road. They’d gotten their education in different ways.</p><p>“Yeah, our… our uncle taught us. Sorta. When he could. We moved around a lot.”</p><p>Jo nodded like she understood. She folded her arms on her lap, leaning into them. “Yeah, so did me and my mom.”</p><p>His brow wrinkled when he looked at her. He hadn’t expected that. “No kidding?”</p><p>She shook her head. “I was born in Nebraska.”</p><p>Maybe they had more in common than he thought. “Huh… Kansas.”</p><p>She snorted. “Yeah, figured.” He had no idea what the hell that meant. He wondered if he should be offended, but then she asked, “Why’d you leave?”</p><p>Like it was his choice.</p><p>Dean remembered the ring in his pocket. He remembered fire. He remembered bodies. “My mom died.”</p><p>Jo’s expression tightened somewhat. She looked forward. “So’d my dad.”</p><p>Dean stared straight, too. He guessed they had <em>a lot</em> more in common than he thought.</p><p>A few long seconds past before Jo tapped his knee and jumped up. “Clean up that mud, Wesson, or I’ll kick your ass.”</p><p>He snorted, grateful that the heaviness between them was dissipating. He gave her a two-fingered salute and watched her walk away.</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p> </p><p>It was Dean’s second week on the job. So far, he was liking it. Sure, Zach could be a little overbearing, but he mostly left Dean alone. Everyone else was great. Garth, who took care of the dogs and horses, took some getting used to, but that was only because he was so damn friendly. It was actually a little endearing, but Dean wouldn’t admit that out loud.</p><p>But he definitely liked Benny the most. On top of causing Dean to gain a few extra pounds since his arrival, he was just a good guy. Dean liked hanging out in the kitchens with him in between meals; and Jo usually joined them, too.</p><p>That afternoon after lunch, the two of them had pulled Dean into the kitchen to congratulate him on making it two weeks. “Most people would have run for the hills by now,” Benny had joked as he set a glass of whiskey in front of Dean for a toast.</p><p>“How can they run at all with how much butter you put in everything?” Jo said, plucking her own glass from his hand.</p><p>Dean chuckled at that. “Nah, it’s not so bad.” Sure, he was up with the sun every morning and he barely got a break until nightfall, but the days were getting shorter. And colder. He’d had to use his potbelly stove for the first time last night.</p><p>“Well, then, we’ll call you a keeper,” Benny said, holding his glass aloft. They clinked them together and took a pull, and Dean thought Benny must have stolen the whiskey from Novak’s private collection, because it went down smoother than anything Dean had ever tasted.</p><p>This job definitely wasn’t without its perks.</p><p>Just as the thought crossed his mind, someone stepped into the doorway. Dean didn’t even need to look to know who it was. The air always shuddered a little when Zach popped up.</p><p>“I see we’re in the midst of a party,” he said, and it didn’t sound like he approved.</p><p>“Just congratulating Dean on his two-week mark,” Benny said.</p><p>“Really? Already?” Zach didn’t wait for an answer before waving it away. “Well, it feels like he’s been muddying up the halls with his boots forever.” He said it a little too pointedly, his eyes falling to Dean’s shoes. And it wasn’t even like Dean could argue because there <em>was</em> mud caked on them.</p><p>Jo snorted in agreement, and Dean wanted to call her a traitor. But he guessed he really hadn’t stuck to the hardwood floors like he’d promised.</p><p>“Anyway, I’m glad you’re all here,” Zach said. “I recently received a letter from Mr. Novak. He’d like us to host a dinner at the end of next week.” He said it like it was good news, but Dean bit back a groan, knowing it’d only mean more work. From the looks of it, Benny and Jo thought the same. “Mr. Laffite, if you could come up with some menu options by tomorrow afternoon?”</p><p>Benny nodded. “Shouldn’t be too hard.”</p><p>“Good man.” Zach turned to Dean. “And there are some landscaping matters I’d like to discuss with you, Mr. Wesson.”</p><p>Dean shrugged. “Okay,” he said. There was a pause, and Zach kept looking at him expectantly. Dean realized, “What, right now?”</p><p>“Seize the day, Mr. Wesson,” Zach said like it was obvious. He half-turned back to the door. “Come with me, I’ll show you.”</p><p>Behind Zach’s back, Dean shared a weary look with Benny and Jo. He drained his drink and stood up.</p><p>Zach was already standing in the doorway, looking back in. “Oh and, Miss Harvelle, if you don’t mind cleaning the floors? There <em>is</em> a lot of mud.”</p><p>Following Zach out, Dean shot her an apologetic glance over his shoulder. He wasn’t the one she seemed pissed at that time though, so he guessed he was in the clear.</p><p>Yeah, maybe “overbearing” wasn’t the right word for Zach. He was a dick.</p><p>Dean followed him out of the kitchen and back toward the center of the house. They were almost at the foyer when the lilting sound of music reached Dean’s ears. Someone was playing the piano. It grew louder the closer they got to the foyer. Nearly at the end of the hall, a door was cracked open, the music clearly coming from within.</p><p>Zachariah passed right by it, jabbering about the hedges being trimmed to look like swans or some shit, but Dean couldn’t help himself. He opened the door a little more, sticking his head in.</p><p>Someone was sitting at the piano. He looked young, but Dean could only see his profile—a straight nose, a strong jaw, long lashes. His hair was a dark brown mess of waves, and Dean would have thought it was black if not for the sunlight pouring through the window, lighting up the ends in a halo. The man was bowed over the grand piano, long fingers flowing along the keys.</p><p>Dean didn’t know the song, but it sounded nice, if not a little melancholy. The man stopped playing abruptly, and he let out a growl of frustration, like he’d messed up a note. It sounded perfect to Dean.</p><p>Dean had never seen this guy before, but there was only one person he could have been. Castiel Novak, the boss’ son. It was about time Dean caught a glimpse of him. He was starting to think Castiel was a ghost.</p><p>“Ah, come on, don’t stop now! It was just getting good,” Dean said. Castiel jumped slightly, wide eyes quickly turning to Dean, looking like he’d been caught red handed. His expression was aghast, as if Dean were eavesdropping—and, okay, maybe Dean was.</p><p>“Uh, Mr. Wesson, what are you doing?” Zach demanded. He must have not noticed Dean had stopped, because he was rushing back down the hall to him, eyes scolding. He opened the door fully and said, “My apologies, Mr. Novak. We didn’t mean to disturb you.”</p><p>Castiel looked back at him neutrally, his lips pressed into a line. He nodded. “It’s fine,” he said, voice rough like gravel.</p><p>“You sounded good,” Dean told him, getting back on track. Castiel’s eyes slid back to him, and Dean realized they were the deepest shade of blue he’d ever seen. “What song was that?”</p><p>Castiel opened his mouth, but it took a second to say, “Chopin. It’s a Nocturne.”</p><p>Dean’s eyes lit up. “Chopin! My brother likes Chopin.” And then, second-guessing himself, “That’s the one that died of consumption, right?”</p><p>Castiel tilted his head just left of center, seeming surprised, but Dean didn’t know if it was a pleasant kind of surprise or a <em>how dare you speak to me, peasant</em> kind of surprise. He never got to find out. Zach interrupted, “This is the new groundskeeper, Dean Wesson.”</p><p>Castiel stayed quiet for a second, almost unblinking as he assessed Dean. It kind of felt like he was looking through him, like Dean was transparent. Then, “Hello, Mr. Wesson.”</p><p>“Call me Dean.”</p><p>“Dean,” the man echoed. His voice just about reverberated in Dean’s bones. “I’m Castiel.”</p><p>“Yeah, I figured that much,” Dean said, smirking lopsidedly, but his mind was completely void of how to respond beyond that. Part of him wanted to tell Castiel to keep playing. Part of him just wanted to keep staring. He didn’t even know why he couldn’t look away. It was almost like Castiel had his own gravitational pull.</p><p>“We’ll leave you to it, Mr. Novak,” Zach told him pointedly, reminding Dean that he was even still there.</p><p>It took a second for either Dean or Castiel to move. Castiel kept looking at him, and it was a little weird how intense he was about it; then, he turned his attention to Zach. Dean rattled his head, the spell broken. Belatedly, he realized he’d licked his lips.</p><p>“Yeah,” Dean agreed. “Sorry if I, uh, disturbed you.”</p><p>“You didn’t,” Castiel assured him.</p><p>“Okay.” Dean looked at Zach; it seemed like the man might have a heart attack if they didn’t leave soon. “Guess I’ll see you around.”</p><p>He followed Zach out of the room, pretty sure he was about to get lectured on not disrupting the Novaks, but Dean couldn’t bring himself to care. He glanced over his shoulder one more time. Castiel’s blue eyes were still on him.</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p> </p><p>Dean figured it was time he explored the rest of the grounds. Or, he guessed, he needed an excuse to get out of his apartment. He’d dreamt uneasily, woken in the small hours of the morning to the wind whipping around the carriage house, its howls sounding like wounded, restless spirits. By the time the sun was scattering its weak light across the sky, Dean was already dressed and hastening down the steps outside his apartment.</p><p>He’d already walked the perimeter of the property’s wall at least a dozen times since he arrived in Amherst. He knew all the gardens, all the hedges, all the ponds. He turned toward the back of the property, which was lined with dense trees, the changing colors of their leaves burning golden in the morning light.</p><p>Along the wall just inside the woods rested a family cemetery. It was in a clearing, an iron fence boxed around it. Ivy twisted up the fence posts, and Dean made a mental note to clean that up. He wrapped his fists around the iron, testing its sturdiness to his satisfaction, and then cast his glance to the graves.</p><p>Some of the headstones looked older than others, their stone weathered but uncracked. Grass grew over the undisturbed earth. The newest looking headstone was toward the middle of the plot, the engraving of a cross still perfectly visible. Empty earth sat to the left of it. Dean guessed that’s where Charles Novak would go one day, next to his wife.</p><p>It seemed a little weird. As far as Dean could tell, Novak wasn’t here very much, and yet he was going to spend eternity in the backyard. Maybe that was a comforting thought for this family. Dean just thought it was creepy.</p><p>He thought of his own father, buried somewhere far away, his body consumed and tied to the earth. It was all wrong. Dean’s insides knotted. He should have found John’s body. He should have burned it.</p><p>He left the graves behind, trekking further into the trees. The land back there was untouched, just wild brush and decaying fallen trunks. He had to duck low, avoiding the branches while he followed the animal paths that cut between the trees. At one point, he spotted places where the bark was scratched red from the young bucks rubbing the velvet from their antlers.</p><p>He didn’t encounter a perimeter fence for another twenty minutes. It was nowhere near as secure as the wall that flanked the other three sides of the property. It was a thin wire fence, more of a marker than a deterrent. Obviously, it couldn’t even keep deer out. That much was abundantly clear by the section of it that lay trampled and twisted beneath the fallen leaves. Dean sighed down at it, figuring that was probably his problem. But he could get away with ignoring it for a little while. It’s not like anyone else knew about it, anyway.</p><p>Besides, the sun was climbing in the sky now, and the manor was likely waking up. And Dean’s stomach was telling him it was time for breakfast.</p><p>He turned around, pushed the thin branches away with his palms while he headed back for the house. But it didn’t take long for a faint trickling to catch his attention. The air felt a little colder in this area—at least by a few degrees. It was nippy and wet. He turned toward the noise, eventually coming across a wall of wild rhododendron. Their deep, dark green leaves stretched taller than Dean stood. The sound of water flowed behind them.</p><p>Dean ducked through to the other side, into a small clearing. A brook rushed through, lapping over roots and rock in minuscule waterfalls and shallow pools. Dean looked downstream, trying to determine where it was headed. He hadn’t seen it before, so he figured it must disappear underground after a certain point. But it looked like it was coming from the other side of the wire fence, probably from a spring that fed out of the Connecticut River.</p><p>It was a nice spot—quiet. Dean tucked the information away, because now he could finally tell Sam he’d found something interesting. He jumped over the stream and headed for the house.</p><p>The day had warmed up a little by the time he stepped out of the tree line. He squinted in the sun, eyes surveying the grounds while he walked. Garth was in the dog run, his laughter trailing behind him as he bound around the grass. The dogs jumped and barked, circling around him for their morning exercise. Dean caught his eye at one point and gave him a wave. Garth waved back enthusiastically.</p><p>In the distance, Jo and another maid were on a sunlit part of the patio, taking the bedsheets off the clotheslines and folding them into wicker baskets. She was too wrapped up in her task to look up, but Dean figured he’d catch her at some point during the day.</p><p>He scanned the back of the manor, eyes trailing over the west wing, then eventually finding the east, across the large tree that stood a few feet from the house.</p><p>He stopped suddenly, feeling like someone had just punched him in the gut before his mind caught up with him. Castiel Novak was on one of the balconies of the top floor, still in his bedclothes. He was sitting atop the stone railing, legs kicked over the sides, head hung—and, for a second, it looked like he was about to jump. But then Dean noticed the book on his lap. He told himself to breathe.</p><p>As far as reading spots went, it didn’t strike Dean as particularly safe. Actually, it was probably downright stupid—and weird. But Castiel looked comfortable, like he’d done it a hundred times. Dean watched him for a little while without meaning to, the way the sun touched his white skin, the way the slight breeze rustled through his hair and made the tails of his robe flutter. Castiel licked the pads of his fingers and turned the page, and Dean suddenly felt parched.</p><p>He averted his eyes quickly, finally realizing that he’d been looking for too long.</p><p>Swiftly, he walked toward the back door of the house, keeping his eyes on the ground, fists tight at his sides. He only let his posture go slack once he was inside. He went for the kitchen, following the smell of Benny’s cooking.</p><p>A few kitchen hands were moving around inside, intent on their tasks. Benny was by the stove, poaching some eggs. He glanced up when Dean entered, a jovial smile cracking his face. “You’re up early.”</p><p>Dean shrugged, pointedly trying not to think about his dream. “Yeah, figured I’d get an early start. Days are getting shorter.”</p><p>“Are they? Seem longer than ever with you around,” Benny joked. He pointed his wooden spatula toward the butcher block in the center of the room. “Have a seat. I’ll whip you up something to eat in a sec.”</p><p>Dean’s mouth was already watering. “Sounds good to me.” He pulled up a stool to the butcher block and tucked himself in, briefly eyeing the cracks and red stains soaked deep into the wood.</p><p>A maid came over with a serving tray, a cup of coffee and a bowl of way too much sugar already sitting on top. Benny plated the eggs with some fresh bread and brought them over to her.</p><p>“Those look good,” Dean said wistfully, watching the maid pick up the tray and exit the kitchen.</p><p>“For the boss,” Benny told him. He was already bringing a new cast iron skillet to the stove. Butter sizzled inside it, and Dean really hoped that was for him.</p><p>“Right, yeah.” Dean rubbed at the back of his neck, the image of Castiel on the balcony flashing into his head. He swallowed, stomach lurching but he really didn’t know why. He practically had to force himself to ask, “What’s his deal, anyway?”</p><p>Benny cracked a few eggs into the skillet. “His deal?”</p><p>“Yeah, I mean… I met him yesterday. Seems kinda—I dunno. Standoffish?” Maybe that wasn’t the right word. Really, Dean had absolutely no idea what word to use, if there even was one that fit. He couldn’t get the way Castiel had stared at him out of his head. Every time he blinked, all he saw were intense blue eyes.</p><p>Benny let out a laugh, briefly glancing over his shoulder. “Yeah, that’s him alright. Never says much, but when he does, it usually ain’t too pleasant.”</p><p>Dean popped his brows. “So, he’s a wealthy asshole?” Figured. Dean really didn’t know why he’d been expecting something different.</p><p>Benny picked up the pan, flipping the eggs in the air. “Well, I didn’t say that,” he said, piquing Dean’s interest. Benny considered, “He’s… an odd duck, I’ll give you that. But he knows all our names.”</p><p>Dean shrugged, not really knowing why that was a big deal. That was just a basic human being thing to do. “Okay? So?”</p><p>Plating the eggs, Benny cut into the loaf of bread on the counter. “You haven’t worked in too many of these big manors—but, trust me, brother, most of these <em>wealthy assholes</em> don’t bother.”</p><p>He picked up the plate, bringing it over to Dean—and, even though Dean had been watching him fry the eggs, he’d forgotten all about breakfast. He looked down at it, muttering, “Thanks.”</p><p>He picked up his fork, about to dig in. He looked back up. “So, he’s slightly less of an asshole than he could have been, is what you’re saying?”</p><p>Benny wrapped his hands around the sides of the butcher block, eyeing Dean with humor. “Why so much interest in Castiel Novak?”</p><p>Dean cut into his eggs just to give himself something to do. “Just curious. I mean, guy as rich as Novak—” He shoved a bite into his mouth, gesturing around vaguely with his fork. “All this? You’d think his son’d be married by now, right?”</p><p>Benny tipped his head to the side, smiling in some private joke. “What d’you think the dinner at the end of the week is for?”</p><p>Dean guessed he hadn’t really thought about it. “Really? He’s gonna choose a wife?”</p><p>Laughing, Benny turned. He grabbed a cloth from the counter and began wiping down the stove. “That’ll be the day.”</p><p>“What do you mean?”</p><p>“Oh, just that this ain’t the first dinner,” Benny said, not looking up. “Sure as hell won’t be the last.”</p><p>Dean watched his back for a second, thinking. He had more questions now than he did when this conversation first started, but he kept them to himself. It wasn’t his business, anyway. He cut another bite of his eggs, trying to forget it. What difference did Castiel Novak make to him?</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>hope you're enjoying the fic so far! would love to hear your thoughts in the comments.</p><p>thanks so much for reading! and genuinely, thank you to everyone who talked me into writing this because i'm in a place right now where i'm like, "every fic i write needs to be out of spite" and, wouldn't you know it, writing about dean and cas getting a second chance at happiness is really doing it for me!</p><p>anyway, see you next sunday!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>welcome back! we're headed onto cas' pov this week. reminder that i'm posting 2 chapters each week, so there's another one after this. enjoy!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>2020</strong>
</p><p>Blaring. Loud, angry blaring. It woke Castiel up with a start, and for a moment he didn’t know where he was. He’d only heard a sound like that when he visited Boston and a ship’s horns echoed across the bay as it came ashore.</p><p>But he wasn’t looking out at the Atlantic. He was in a small room, on a soft mattress, with the sunlight coming in through the cracks in the curtain. His eyes stung from the light.</p><p>He’d dreamed about nothingness. It was the second night in a row, he realized. Just cold, black <em>nothing</em>. It clogged his throat with fear.</p><p>What time was it? It had been dark just a moment ago.</p><p>But that was normal. He’d been sleeping. He was awake now, and it was morning. He could account for that lost time.</p><p>Dean was against his back, miles of bare skin pressed together, sharing heat under the blankets. He groaned in annoyance before peeling away, untangling his limbs from Castiel’s, and rolled over to his desk next to the bed. His hand hit something, and the blaring stopped. And thank God for that.</p><p>Castiel turned over, chasing Dean’s warmth, wanting to banish the cold. He nuzzled into Dean’s shoulder. Dean remained still, just breathing shallowly. The light behind Castiel’s eyes began to dim. He didn’t know how long it was; maybe seconds—or hours, or days. Maybe years. He drifted off, melting back into darkness.</p><p>And then the blaring started up again.</p><p>“What <em>is</em> that?” he gritted out.</p><p>Dean hummed, his arm reaching out and fumbling for whatever was making the sound. It cut off again. “Alarm,” he grumbled.</p><p>Castiel didn’t care what that meant at the moment.</p><p>But then Dean sighed as though he were trying to rally himself. “I gotta get up.”</p><p>Giving a sound of protest, Castiel wrapped his arm tighter around Dean’s torso. “Why?”</p><p>“I got class,” Dean answered ruefully. Unfortunately, it was a valid excuse.</p><p>“Education is important,” Castiel allowed.</p><p>Dean snorted, sounding a little more awake. “Thanks, Mr. Rogers.”</p><p>“I don’t know who that is.”</p><p>Dean didn’t explain, so perhaps it wasn’t important. “All right,” he said with a breath of finality. He put his elbow under him and picked himself up, forcing Castiel to sit up, too, which Castiel wasn’t exactly happy about. The blankets pooling on his lap, he shot Dean a glare. It didn’t have much heat behind it—probably because he was still waking up, but it could have also been because he loved seeing Dean in the morning. His freckles were all so stark in the clean, birthing light, his green eyes deep, forest hues encircled by rings of juniper before the flecks of gold appeared in them as the day wore on. His hair was ruffled and softened. The lines on his face were less guarded.</p><p>Castiel thought back to the first time Dean had stayed with him until morning. They were woken up by Zachariah knocking at the door, and Dean had to quickly exit through the balcony and leap to the nearby oak tree. While scaling down the branches, Castiel was worried he’d fall and break his leg. When Dean reached the grass, he’d looked up and offered a grin that was as bright as the day.</p><p>A week later, Dean installed a wooden trellis on the wall outside of Castiel’s balcony. In the summer, it bloomed with roses.</p><p>He wondered if Dean remembered that.</p><p>Before he could ask, Dean slid out of bed and picked up his underwear—<em>boxers</em>, Dean had called them yesterday—off the floor where it had been discarded last night. He hopped into them, and Castiel frowned at not being able to see all of his freckled skin.</p><p>“You alright? You look a little pale,” Dean told him, causing Castiel’s eyes to flicker up to his face.</p><p>“Do I?” He scrubbed his hands down his face, trying to wake up. His legs were still warm under the covers, but there was a nipping chill in the room that rocked down his spine. He yawned. “I must be tired.”</p><p>“I’ll make some coffee,” Dean threw over his shoulder while he walked to his closet and pulled out his clothes for the day. The items they’d purchased for Castiel were still mostly in bags on the floor, but Dean had promised they’d find space for them. It was a warm thought: sharing a space with Dean.</p><p>As Dean slid into his jeans, he said, “I only have two classes today. Should be done around two-ish. But then I gotta head over to the garage for a couple hours for work. And Sam’s at his internship tonight. We’ll both be back for dinner though.”</p><p>Castiel still wasn’t conscious enough to take in all of that information accurately, but he assumed the headline was this: he’d be alone all day. That was a daunting prospect. “What am I supposed to do?”</p><p>Dean pulled a t-shirt over his head. “Play catch up?” he suggested. Castiel furrowed his brows. “I dunno. Read something. Listen to music. Watch a movie—Actually, that’s a good idea. Movies’ll help teach you what the world’s like.”</p><p>Castiel supposed he could give it a shot. He wasn’t certain how long that would take, but how many of these “movies” could there possibly be? He wanted to try—for Dean. Because Dean had his own life, and Castiel didn’t want to be a burden on him. “How do I access them?”</p><p>“Uh.” Dean’s eyes lit about the room for a second before he pointed at his laptop on his nightstand. He came back over, swiping it up as he did, and sat on the bed. Castiel watched him unfold the device, click a few times, and then turn it around so Castiel could see the screen. “Netflix,” Dean told him, as if it explained everything. He picked the laptop up and offered it to Castiel. “Just scroll around, watch what catches your interest. Sammy likes the lame documentaries, but they might be good for you to watch. Just don’t watch <em>Tiger King</em> right away. Trust me.”</p><p>Castiel pressed his lips together dubiously, but he gently lifted the laptop out of Dean’s hands. “Okay. I trust you.”</p><p>“And there’s food in the kitchen for when you get hungry,” Dean told him. “Oh—and!” He stood up again and made for the shopping bags full of Castiel’s belongings on the floor. He pulled something out and brought it over. Like the laptop, it was gray and made of metal, and it unfolded.</p><p>Dean told him, “This is a cell phone. Kinda outdated, but that’ll be good for you to start with. You need me, use this and we can talk. I programmed it last night, so just hold down the one button and it’ll call me.” He handed that to Castiel, too, and Castiel wondered how many of these metal devices one person needed. “If I don’t pick up, leave a message and I’ll call back. Or, if it’s an emergency, hold down the two and it’ll call Sam. Got it?”</p><p><em>No</em>.</p><p>“Yes, I… think so.”</p><p>“Awesome,” Dean said. He paused, looking around again as if he was searching for something. “Okay, I don’t think I’m forgetting anything. But, uh—it’s still early. Go back to sleep if you want.”</p><p>Castiel didn’t want that. Not really, not now that he was awake. He didn’t want to be sucked back into the nothingness, especially knowing Dean wouldn’t be there when he re-emerged.</p><p>When Dean stood up again, Castiel knew he was leaving. He swallowed, throat clicking, and resisted the urge to ask Dean to stay. He reminded himself that Dean had his own life—and Castiel did not. Not yet. Maybe, in time…</p><p>But Dean must have seen the apprehension on his face, because he bent over and rested his hand on Castiel’s shoulder. “Cas, it’s cool. All you gotta do is hang out today.”</p><p>“Hang out,” Castiel echoed, and he thought he knew what that meant. “I believe I can do that.”</p><p>“I know you can,” Dean answered flippantly. He crowded in and pecked a kiss to Castiel’s lips before drawing away completely. He was gone too soon. “I’ll see you tonight.”</p><p>“Tonight,” Castiel confirmed. His stomach was in knots. He hadn’t been away from Dean since he left the manor, and now he had to face this new world alone for a full day. He tried not to show—to feel—how overwhelming that was. He could do this.</p><p>“Have a nice day, Dean.”</p><p>“Yeah, you too.” And then, Dean was out the door.</p><p>Castiel breathed. He could do this.</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p> </p><p>As the morning proceeded, Castiel went from feeling overwhelmed to frustrated.</p><p>He’d begun by drinking a cup of coffee that Dean had left in the “coffee maker” on the kitchen counter. He considered making himself breakfast, but he didn't know how to work the stove. (He never had known, actually. That's what Benny was for.) By the time he got back to upstairs, the screen of the laptop had gone dark, and Castiel thought he’d somehow broken it. He lifted it up at first, wondering if there was a way to fix it from underneath. He prodded the screen with his finger, then poked one of the keys, jumping when that caused the screen to spring back into life.</p><p>It took a moment to figure out what to do next, but he remembered Dean touching the gray square beneath the keyboard. He poked that, too, feeling something beneath click, and the “Netflix” disappeared. Something else opened instead that appeared to also contain “movies.” Castiel touched the little gray square again, and one of the movies began to play. A woman was opening a door to a man carrying a box. His shirt said “PIZZA” on it. Castiel couldn’t quite believe what happened next. He watched the movie with a mixture of horror, confusion, and fascination until he had to slam the laptop closed and toss it away in humiliation.</p><p>He decided not to watch any more movies.</p><p>He dressed in some of the clothes Dean bought for him and went downstairs, at a complete loss as to what to do. He explored the townhouse, rifling through the cabinet in the bathroom and inspecting the strange contents inside, flipping through the books on the shelves in Sam’s bedroom, playing with the “light switch” on the wall in the hallway and watching the lights flicker on and off without a second’s delay, studying the “music records” and “cassette tapes” Dean had shown him and wondering how to make them work.</p><p>When he was hungry, he went back to the kitchen and sampled the strange, colorful foods in bags and boxes in the cabinets. He found “Cheerios” to be bland, and “Pop Tarts” made his teeth hurt. But there was something called “peanut butter” that he liked, even if it made his mouth feel dry.</p><p>By that time, it was nearly the afternoon. Castiel plopped down on the couch in the living room, not knowing what to do next to occupy his time. He watched the sun on the carpet, and he sighed in boredom. Outside, he heard the sounds of “car” horns on the road. Castiel looked out the window, but all he could see from where he was sitting was the blue sky.</p><p>He thought of the manor. Often, all he could do was sit and watch the sun on the rotting floorboards, look at the clouds move across the sky outside the shattered windows. He’d been unable to step outside.</p><p>But he could now, if he wished. He could walk out the door and get some fresh air.</p><p>His stomach soured at the thought. Dean had told him to hang around the house. Perhaps that was for the best. Dean knew more about this world, after all. Perhaps Castiel shouldn’t venture into the unknown. Perhaps he should try to find another movie, after all.</p><p>He spotted a thin, black device with buttons on the coffee table and picked it up, idly playing with it. He pushed a few buttons, watching them light up in red. He kept waiting for something to happen, but it never did—until he hit one button and the large black box on the wall sprung into life.</p><p>Two people were sitting at a desk staring back at him. Castiel tilted his head to the side. “Hello—?”</p><p>“Welcome back,” the woman on screen said, and Castiel briefly wondered how she knew he’d been gone in the first place. But she kept speaking before he could answer: “We have breaking news coming from downtown, where a two-family house burned down earlier today…” There were moving images of people in black or blue uniforms outside the blackened carcass of a building. The woman’s voice was still audible as she described what happened.</p><p>Castiel’s heart was lodged in his throat. If there was a fire in town, he needed to warn Dean. “Excuse me,” he told the woman, but she didn’t acknowledge him. She continued speaking. Castiel pulled his cell phone out from his pocket and went into the kitchen for privacy. He pressed down on the button Dean had instructed him to.</p><p>Nothing happened. He squinted at the phone. There was a faint trilling sound coming from it. Castiel held the device closer to his ear. “Dean? Can you hear me?” The noise continued. “Dean?” What if Dean couldn’t hear him? What if the fire had already spread to the rest of town?</p><p>The noise stopped.</p><p>A rustling sound replaced it. And then there was Dean’s hushed voice: “Yeah, Cas? You all right?”</p><p>Castiel sighed in relief. “Thank God,” he breathed. “Dean, there’s a fire. You need to be careful.”</p><p>“A fire?” Dean’s voice asked.</p><p>“The woman in the box on the wall told me.”</p><p>“The woman—? Cas, what are you talking about?”</p><p>Castiel growled in frustration. “There was a woman! She said there’s a fire!”</p><p>Dean was quiet for a second. Castiel looked at the cell phone, wondering if Dean was gone. And then, “Are you watching the news?”</p><p>Castiel bit down on his jaw and tensed his fingers around the cell phone. He didn’t know how to answer that, but it didn’t matter. “Dean, please listen. It looks to me like the flames are contained, but you have to be—”</p><p>Dean was laughing. It took Castiel a second to realize that over the phone. He knitted his brows together. “Why are you—?”</p><p>“Cas, fire safety codes are a little better than they were in the 1800s, okay?” Dean said, humor still in his voice. “They don’t spread so fast anymore. It’s not gonna take half the town down with it, don’t worry.”</p><p>From the living room, the woman was still speaking. However, she was no longer talking about the fire. Castiel heard the phrase, “We’ll show you where to find the best pumpkin pie for your Thanksgiving dinner…”</p><p>He wondered if he should feel relieved. “Oh,” he said into the phone. He didn’t understand anything about this world. Nausea was roiling in his stomach. He should have been relieved. “Good.”</p><p>“Yeah,” Dean agreed. There was another pause before he asked, “So, you’re good, right? I can get back to class?”</p><p>Castiel cast his gaze toward the window. He wanted to say no. He wanted to go home, because at least it was familiar.</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“Okay,” Dean said. “See you tonight.”</p><p>“Okay,” Castiel whispered, the word getting trapped in his throat. Dean said goodbye. Castiel said it back. He didn’t know if Dean could still hear him after that. He held the phone to his face, listening out for some sign that Dean was still there. He didn’t hear anything. After a while, he folded the phone closed and put it back in his pocket.</p><p>He glanced around the kitchen—its foreign appliances and strange food, its overhead lighting that burst on with the flip of a switch.</p><p>He couldn’t stay indoors for a moment longer.</p><p>Castiel grabbed his coat and charged through the front door, not allowing himself a second to let the doubt swarming in his gut overwhelm him. His confidence lasted right up until the moment the door clamored shut behind him.</p><p>The front yard was tiny. He’d only have to take a few strides before ending up on the sidewalk. The cars zipped by on the road faster than he’d anticipated. It caused his breath to bottleneck and slowly ratchet up his throat. Maybe he wasn’t ready for this just yet. But what was the alternative? To go back inside, let the walls close in around him, to allow the sun to set and darkness to fall and the hours to get lost in the abyss? He couldn’t.</p><p>It was all too much.</p><p>And then, a tiny but cheerful voice to his left said, “Hello!”</p><p>Castiel turned his head, finding a small child sitting cross-legged on the porch outside the second townhouse’s door. The boy couldn’t have been older than five—perhaps even younger. He had sandy hair and a large smile, and he was holding his hand up in greeting. Paper was spread out in front of him, some blank and some depicting crude designs. There was a yellow box beside his knee, full of what seemed to be pastels.</p><p>Castiel cocked his head in question. “Hello,” he said, stiffly waving back.</p><p>The child dropped his hand, but his smile was still bright and toothy as he continued to stare at Castiel. “Are you my new neighbor?”</p><p>Castiel glanced at the road again before deciding this child was a good distraction. He paced over and said, “That depends. Do you live here?”</p><p>The boy nodded. “Yeah. I’m Jack.”</p><p>“Jack,” Castiel echoed. “My name is Castiel.”</p><p>“Do you wanna color?” Jack asked him innocently.</p><p>Castiel wasn’t sure how to answer. He looked around for a sign of an adult that the child may be attached to, but he appeared unsupervised. Perhaps the boy only wanted company; Castiel could relate. He gave the biggest smile he could muster, which was actually quite small, and nodded. He sat down on the porch step, and Jack handed him a few pieces of paper. He slid the box of pastels between them to share; and, when Castiel picked one up, he found they felt like wax instead of chalk.</p><p>Jack had his head ducked as he worked on his latest creation, which appeared to be a woman’s face. As Castiel began idly sketching, he asked, “What are you drawing?”</p><p>“My mom,” Jack told him.</p><p>“And where is your mother?”</p><p>“She’s inside.”</p><p>Castiel picked up the green color and added in some grass on his drawing. “And your father?”</p><p>“Oh,” Jack said, suddenly sitting back. His brow was pinched in concentration before he seemed to decide, “I don’t have one. Well… I do. But I don’t see him.” He immediately went back to drawing, not a care in the world.</p><p>Castiel regarded him, his heart going out to Jack. “I’m sorry,” he said, getting back to his drawing. “My father wasn’t around much when I was a boy, either.”</p><p>Jack didn’t say anything to that. He was too wrapped up in coloring the hair on his drawing. Castiel complimented, “You’re very good,” even though he wasn’t.</p><p>“Thanks. So are you,” Jack told him, and Castiel supposed the years of art classes paid off. “Where is that?”</p><p>Castiel focused on what he’d drawn. It was a depiction of a clearing in the woods, a small brook snaking through the trees. Flowerbeds sat on either side of a reading bench. Castiel smiled at the memory of it. “Nowhere anymore,” he realized with sadness. “It’s… likely overgrown by now.”</p><p>“Oh,” Jack said again, seeming interested. Castiel offered him a tight smile, trying to push down his feelings on the matter.</p><p>From inside, a woman’s voice called, “Jack, honey, it’s time for lunch—” The door swung open, revealing a woman with cropped brown hair and light eyes. She blinked at Castiel with a mixture of surprise and suspicion. “Oh,” she said. “Hello?”</p><p>Castiel stood up to greet her, pushing a pleasant expression. He opened his mouth to introduce himself, but Jack beat him to it. “Mom, this is Castiel. He’s my new friend!”</p><p>The woman blinked rapidly again, shaking her head. She gave an unsure sound of, “Oh, um…”</p><p>“I’m,” Castiel told her, not really knowing what to say. He remembered what Jack had asked him earlier, and decided to go with that. “Your new neighbor. I live next door.”</p><p>“Oh!” Jack’s mother exclaimed. A smile came to her face on the heels of a chuckle. “Hi. Did the Winchesters move out?”</p><p>“No. I… live with them. Since yesterday.”</p><p>“Okay,” she said. Then, holding out her hand, “I’m Kelly.”</p><p>Castiel stared at her hand, not sure what to do with it. She didn’t offer it like a lady did with the expectation of a gentleman kissing it. It was the way men greeted each other. Awkwardly, Castiel shook her hand, keeping his grip loose. It felt strange.</p><p>“I see Jack’s already wrangled you into playing with him,” Kelly said afterward, letting her arm fall to her side.</p><p>“I don’t mind,” Castiel assured her.</p><p>“Mom, can Castiel have lunch with us?” Jack asked excitedly, and Castiel thought his heart skipped a beat. “Please!” Kelly looked down at her son, eyes wide, before meeting Castiel’s gaze again with hesitation. But Jack persisted: “You <em>said</em> we should be nice to our neighbors.”</p><p>Kelly laughed a little again. “Yes, I… did say that.” Still speaking to Jack, her eyes moved back to Castiel, and she said, “If he isn’t busy, I’m sure that’s alright.”</p><p>Jack bounced slightly. He demanded, “Can you come?”</p><p>Castiel couldn’t help the warm feeling that spread through his chest. He’d never expected anyone in this century to want him around. “I’m not busy,” he said, much to Jack’s delight.</p><p>“Okay. Then, come in,” Kelly said, stepping back inside and holding open the door. Jack abandoned his coloring on the porch and rushed through the door. Castiel followed him. The unit looked a lot like Sam and Dean’s, apart from the way it was decorated. Jack led him through the kitchen, offering him a seat at the table.</p><p>Kelly came over with two plates, sandwiches on top. “Hope you like peanut butter and jelly,” she said, placing one in front of Jack and one in front of Castiel.</p><p>Castiel smiled down at the sandwich. “I do. Thank you.”</p><p>“Thanks, Mom!” Jack called as Kelly went back into the kitchen to fix another sandwich. Jack sat on his hands, waiting for her, and Castiel knew better than to eat before his hosts.</p><p>As she worked, she asked, “So, Castiel. Do you go to the school?”</p><p>“No. I…” He fished for an excuse. “Completed my education. Years ago.” <em>Many</em> years.</p><p>“Oh,” Kelly said. “What do you do now?”</p><p>He had no idea how to answer that, but he was fairly certain he shouldn’t tell her that he spent 150 years as a revenant unable to transcend from this world to the next. Instead, he said, “I don’t have work.” It sounded like a lame answer. He wondered if he should add that his father owned a publishing company that he was meant to take over, but it was likely pointless information. He imagined the firm was defunct by now. He supposed he hadn’t considered that before. In a way, the thought of it was freeing.</p><p>“But I recently found myself back in town,” he continued. “Dean and Sam took me in.”</p><p>Kelly came over to the table, another plate in hand. “That’s nice of them. They seem like good people. I don’t know them well—just a hello at the mailbox here and there. And Dean’s helped me carry in the groceries when this one was being a handful.” She shot Jack a teasing look while she sat down.</p><p>Castiel warmed at the thought of Dean doing that. “Yes, Dean is…” the corners of his lips tugged, and he glanced down to hide it, “the best man I know.”</p><p>“Can we eat now?” Jack interrupted.</p><p>“Not yet. You know the rules,” Kelly reproved. She clasped her hands together in prayer. Jack did the same. Castiel didn’t know why it had taken him off guard at first, but he followed their lead.</p><p>Jack led them in a quick prayer before quickly picking up one half of his sandwich and biting into it. Castiel couldn’t help but feel a certain fondness for him.</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p> </p><p>Castiel stayed at the Klines’ longer than he’d anticipated. After lunch, Jack invited him to watch a movie about a fish who gets lost; and, despite Castiel’s initial reservations, he realized this movie was child-appropriate. He also preferred it to the one on Dean’s laptop.</p><p>Meanwhile, Kelly spent the afternoon studying. Castiel learned that she was a political science major at the college, and she held a job at the mayor’s office most nights and weekends. All of that on top of raising a child. It couldn’t have been easy.</p><p>He admired Kelly. And he found her to be kind and warm-hearted as well as driven. He liked Jack, too. One afternoon with him and Castiel almost forgot the burden of the last century. He hoped there would be more days like this in the future.</p><p>Because he had a future now. His own future, and he could do whatever he liked. Somehow, Kelly and Jack had made him fully realize that. Castiel was <em>alive</em> again—maybe for the first time.</p><p>At some point, the sun outside had gone down, and Jack was currently on the couch, occupying himself by playing “candy crush” on a “tablet,” which looked like a large version of a cell phone. Kelly and Castiel were at the kitchen table, and Kelly had pulled out her phone, claiming she’d taken photographs of them throughout the day.</p><p>“I didn’t pose for any photographs,” he told her, brows pinched.</p><p>“I took candids. There are some pretty good shots.” She showed him the screen, flipping through perfectly colored images that Castiel had no idea she’d captured. He saw himself and Jack sitting on the floor watching the fish movie, Jack chasing the squirrels on the walk they took around the block, and a “video” of Castiel teaching him how to skip stones on the pond.</p><p>He’d always enjoyed photographs. They offered a realistic view that couldn’t be captured in a painting. He was no artist, but he appreciated the honesty of photographs. And these “candids” created a whole new layer to that.</p><p>His mother had kept albums, which passed to Castiel after her death. He’d added to them—pictures of his family, the garden and manor, of himself. Of Dean.</p><p>In fact, those albums may still be in the manor. Castiel thought he knew where to look.</p><p>“I can send these to you,” Kelly told him, knocking him out of his thoughts. “Here, what’s your number?”</p><p>“My… number?”</p><p>“Your phone number,” Kelly laughed.</p><p>Castiel still didn’t understand. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the phone Dean had given him, wondering if, like Kelly’s, it took photographs, too. He inspected it, looking for a number. He didn’t find one. “I don’t…”</p><p>Suddenly, the phone started making a sound. His eyes widened. He hadn’t pressed anything. Was it broken?</p><p>“Why is it doing that?” he asked, looking to Kelly for help.</p><p>She was giving him a funny look. “Ringing?” she asked. “Are you gonna pick it up?”</p><p>Castiel didn’t know how to do that. He stared at the small screen in front, finding Dean’s name written on it. The last time he’d communicated with Dean, the phone had been open. Unsurely, he opened it again and held it closer to his face.</p><p>“Dean?”</p><p>“Cas?” Dean sounded panicked. “Cas! <em>Fuck</em>—Where the hell are you?”</p><p>Castiel pressed his lips together guiltily. It must have been frightening for Dean to come home and find Castiel wasn’t there when he’d told him to stay in the apartment. Castiel hadn’t meant to alarm him, but he hadn’t realized how late it had gotten. “I’m next door. With the Klines.”</p><p>Over the phone, he heard Dean let out a heavy, steadying breath. “Don’t move!” he yelled. The screen lit up again, but Dean’s name was no longer there. All that remained was the gray background and the “digital” clock that was usually on the screen.</p><p>“Dean?” Castiel asked, not knowing if Dean could still hear him. There was no answer. “Dean, are you still there?”</p><p>There was a knock at the door. Both Castiel and Kelly looked at it. Then, they shared a look, and Kelly got up and answered the door. Castiel heard Dean’s voice again, sounding slightly more pleasant than it had a moment ago: “Hey. Is Cas here?”</p><p>Jack drifted into the kitchen, coming to a rest at Castiel’s side. Castiel looked at him. Jack looked back in question.</p><p>“Come on in,” Kelly told Dean, stepping away from the door.</p><p>“Thanks,” Dean said. He came inside, his eyes instantly landing on Castiel. He appeared both harried and relieved.</p><p>Castiel stood up. “Dean, I’m sorry if I frightened you. I didn’t intend—”</p><p>“It’s cool,” Dean interrupted, holding up a palm. “Just… don’t do that again.” Castiel wasn’t sure whether to be contrite or angry that Dean was treating him like a child. After all, Dean was the last person who should be lecturing him on disappearing. Before he could decide whether or not he was angry, Dean’s eyes fell to Jack. “Hey, kid.”</p><p>“Hello,” Jack greeted politely.</p><p>“Sorry if we kept him too late,” Kelly said, joining the group. She was speaking to Dean, but she kept shooting Castiel looks, as if checking up on him. “He and Jack seemed to be getting along.”</p><p>“Ah, don’t worry about it,” Dean said easily. He lied, “Cas is just—he’s new in town. Doesn’t know his way around. Thought he might have gotten lost.”</p><p>Kelly’s expression turned perplexed. “I thought you said you were from here?”</p><p>Castiel opened his mouth to answer, but Dean got there first. “He is! He just… he was… Amish.” There was a smile plastered on his face and it looked fake.</p><p>Castiel tilted his head at Dean, not following.</p><p>Kelly appeared even more confused than before. There was a beat of silence in the room. “Oh…” she said at last, something like realization dawning on her face. “I didn’t know there was a community around here.”</p><p>“Oh, yeah! Big time,” Dean lied, sounding much more confident. “Up in the mountains. And, you know… He went out on Rumspringa and that was, uh, when we met. And he just… decided to go all <em>Breaking Amish</em>. So here we are.”</p><p>“That, um,” Kelly said with a relieved kind of laugh. “That actually explains a lot.”</p><p>Castiel had no idea what she meant by that.</p><p>“Doesn’t it?” Dean clapped his hand on Castiel’s shoulder. Then, “Well, we’ll get out of your hair.”</p><p>“Oh, no, it was no trouble,” Kelly said, walking them to the door. Dean was practically dragging him, and Castiel found it difficult not to stumble over his own feet. “You’re welcome any time, Castiel.”</p><p>“Thank you,” Castiel told her when he and Dean were outside in the cold night.</p><p>Jack appeared at his mother’s side. “Bye, Cas!”</p><p>“Goodnight,” Castiel told him gently. He looked at Kelly and again said, “Goodnight.”</p><p>She smiled back. “Goodnight.”</p><p>She closed the door, and Dean gave a deflating breath. He finally let go of Castiel. “Son of a bitch, don’t <em>do</em> that! You scared the shit out of me,” he scolded, walking back to the house.</p><p>Castiel rolled his eyes. Dean was acting a bit melodramatic. “I already apologized,” he defended. “Besides, you couldn’t possibly expect me to sit inside all day.”</p><p>Dean shoved open the door to their townhouse. Over his shoulder, he barked, “Yeah, Cas. That’s <em>exactly</em> what I expected you to do!” He stomped into the kitchen. Castiel hung back, half-in and half-outside, his hand gripping the door. Heat simmered in his gut.</p><p>“I’m not a child, Dean.”</p><p>“No, you’re worse!” Dean shot back. “You’ve been alive for like, a <em>day</em>. You think <em>maybe</em> we can make it two without me thinking you—” He cut himself off with a grunt.</p><p>Castiel stepped in, letting the door slam closed behind him. “That I what, Dean?” Killed himself?</p><p>Dean withered, leaning back against the counter. He ran his hand down his face for composure. Softly now, he said, “Look, I was worried. You can’t just run off. That’s not okay.”</p><p>Castiel didn’t want to argue with him, especially not when Dean’s anger transformed back into what it truly was. Fear. “I understand,” he agreed.</p><p>Dean nodded, swallowing hard. “Good.” He picked himself off the counter and crossed to Castiel. His touch was gentle now, but still somehow firm. “Look, I know it’s a lot. But you gotta trust me, okay?”</p><p>“Yes, Dean,” Castiel told him. “Of course.”</p><p>“Great.” Dean withdrew again, letting the moment drip off of him. “Now, what d’you say we see what’s for dinner, huh?”</p><p>He turned at once, heading for the refrigerator. Castiel followed him, recalling the photographs Kelly had shown him. “Actually, Dean. I’ve been thinking.”</p><p>Dean looked around, a bit of fear creeping into his eyes again and Castiel didn’t know why. “Okay?”</p><p>“I think I know a way to convince Sam that what we’re saying is true.”</p><p>Dean blinked as if he hadn’t expected that. “Really? How?”</p><p>Castiel tensed. This was the part he knew Dean wouldn’t like. In fact, he hated it himself.</p><p>“We have to go back to the manor.”</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p> </p><p>It was close to midnight when they pulled up to the manor’s front gate. Castiel peered out the car window, up the hill at the carcass of the structure, a gaping black mass blocking out the moonlight. He drew in a breath, reminding himself that he was alive. The house didn’t hold any power over him anymore.</p><p>Still, he hadn’t expected to be back so soon. In truth, he’d hoped to never return. Cold, pitch-colored tendrils slid up his spine, whispering to him that, once he stepped foot inside, he’d be stuck again.</p><p>Dean brought a pair of bolt cutters so they wouldn’t have to climb over the fence again. He ignored Sam’s protest of, “Come on, Dean. This is stupid. We’re gonna get arrested.” Before the last word passed his lips, the gate’s rusted hinges were whining open. The three of them walked up the hill together, and Dean cut the lock that barred entrance to the front door. The door swung open wide, and Castiel’s heart was in his ears. All he saw through the threshold was shadow.</p><p>The Winchesters walked through, and Castiel steeled himself before following. Once inside, he looked over his shoulder, wondering if he should step out again, just to prove to himself that he could.</p><p>“You’re sure they’re gonna be here, right, Cas?” Dean asked, regaining Castiel’s attention. He’d flipped on his flashlight, the beam of white light swimming with dust. Everywhere he directed it, the circle of light hit graying wood and the desaturated color of the carpet.</p><p>“There are still chests in the attic. I’ve seen them,” Castiel answered, though he wasn’t certain what was in them. He knew some contained his belongings, but he wasn’t able to rifle through them. Now that he was corporal again, he hoped he was right about finding his photo albums.</p><p>“Okay, then how do we get to the attic?”</p><p>Castiel dreaded walking further into the house, but they’d come back for a purpose. He was determined to see it through. “Follow me.” He started toward the grand staircase.</p><p>“You’re sure this place is stable, right?” Sam worried as he trailed behind Dean.</p><p>“What’s the matter, Sammy?” Dean teased. “You afraid your gigantic ass is finally gonna bring everything crashing down after two-hundred years?”</p><p>“It’s just a question, Dean.”</p><p>Castiel tuned out their bickering. At the top of the staircase, he turned in the opposite direction of the wing that contained his bedroom. He’d rarely frequented this part of the house in his life, and he’d had plenty of time to explore in his death—but he still often found himself avoiding his father’s wing.</p><p>The hallway that led to the attic had suffered the brunt of time’s cruel decay. Rats and bugs had eaten through the walls. The floorboards were crumbling. There was a hole in the ceiling that went up to the roof, allowing the moonlight to spill in. Bats were hanging from the planks of wood that jutted out.</p><p>“You’ll have to be careful,” Castiel told the brothers. “Follow my steps exactly.”</p><p>“Guys, I really don’t think this is safe,” Sam said, and perhaps he was right, but he followed after them anyway.</p><p>Dean was shining his light all around, and every now and again he gave out small grunts of disgust. When they were midway to the attic door, he said, “I feel like I need to get a tetanus booster.”</p><p>Castiel focused on where he was placing his feet. He stepped over loose boards and gaps in the floor. To his sides, he heard rats scratching and squealing inside the walls.</p><p>There was a crunching sound behind him, followed quickly by a yelp from Dean and a punched-out gasp from Sam. Castiel whipped his head around, just in time to see Dean’s foot go through the floor. Sam had grabbed him under his arm, and Dean was white-knuckling his brother’s sleeve.</p><p>“You all right?” Sam asked, concerned, as he hefted Dean back up.</p><p>“Yeah, yeah,” Dean assured, taking out his ankle from the broken board. He shined his light down at it. He didn’t appear to be bleeding, and his jeans weren’t ripped.</p><p>Castiel realized his heart rate had sped up. He breathed out, trying to get himself under control. “I told you to step where I step.”</p><p>“I <em>was</em>!” Dean argued.</p><p>They were almost at the end of the hall. Castiel walked forward again, still glancing over his shoulder at Dean. “That’s impossible. I know which floorboards to avoid. After spending over a century and a half in this house, I know everything about it—”</p><p>He slammed into something solid.</p><p>It made him jolt back, ears ringing. There was a dull thudding on his chest where it had impacted with the attic’s door. He blinked at the wood, momentarily stunned.</p><p>“You were saying?” Dean said.</p><p>Castiel righted himself. He cleared his throat, embarrassment burning his cheeks. He could only muster himself enough to half-glance over his shoulder at the brothers. “I, um… Didn’t have to worry about opening doors. Before. When I didn’t have… a body.” It sounded like a lame excuse, even if it were true.</p><p>“Uh-huh,” Dean goaded. “Watch your step there, Casper.”</p><p>Castiel rolled his eyes in irritation, pretending the stinging heat of shame hadn’t spread to his ears. He opened the attic door and ascended the short flight of stairs. The room wasn’t very big, and it had always been bare bones—just wooden walls, lacking any décor. It housed generations of items left behind by death or abandonment: trunks of clothing and memorabilia, furniture, paintings that were now tattered in cracked frames, jewelry, glass dolls that had once belonged to Castiel’s aunt when she was a girl. Those in particular had always unnerved him. Whatever was left of them sat in a pile of shards in the corner. In another corner, Castiel’s mother’s wedding dress hung from a torso stand, its once white lace moth-bitten and blackened.</p><p>He coughed as he inhaled the thick layer of dust that sat along every surface.</p><p>Dean walked past Castiel, their shoulders brushing as he did. “Let’s get crackin’,” he said.</p><p>Castiel glanced over his shoulder at Sam. In the low light of the moon coming through the broken window across the room, Sam’s face was pinched while he surveyed the attic. When he met Castiel’s eyes, his expression turned guarded, but there was a curiousness about him, too.</p><p>“I believe those trunks were mine,” Castiel said, pointing to a neat stack of five leather chests toward the back of the room. The three of them worked on lifting them up and spreading out to give themselves room to search through them. By the time Castiel forced open the rusted latch of the first trunk, his hands were caked in dust.</p><p>The trunk was filled with clothes, mostly suits and ties. Dried pieces of crumbling lavender, barely recognizable anymore, were tucked inside the folds to keep the fabric smelling fresh, but many of the garments had holes chewed through them by bugs or rodents. Castiel really hoped he wouldn’t find anything that had gotten trapped decaying inside the trunk.</p><p>He picked up a blue, satin blazer and held it up to the moonlight. He frowned at the disintegrating state it was in. He used to like that blazer.</p><p>“Guys, check this out!” Sam exclaimed. Castiel glanced over to where he was kneeling next to another opened trunk, holding up his cell phone, a bright light akin to Dean’s flashlight shining from it. Castiel briefly wondered if his own cell phone could do such a thing before realizing it wasn’t important.</p><p>“You find something?” Dean asked.</p><p>Sam reached back into the trunk, something inside rustling. He pulled out a large, curling piece of parchment. “It’s a map of Amherst from the 1850s!”</p><p>Dean gave a scoffing sound. “Quit nerding. We’re looking for the albums.”</p><p>“Yeah, but this actually exists,” Sam said flippantly. He shined his light back into the trunk. “There’s some other cool stuff in here, too. We should bring this to a museum.”</p><p>Dean huffed, shaking his head. He returned back to his own trunk.</p><p>Meanwhile, Castiel tilted his head to the side. He’d never kept maps. They must have belonged to his father or a relative. “That trunk doesn’t belong to me. You can disregard it.”</p><p>“What?” Sam said, aghast. “No way! I’m just getting started.” He continued to dig through the contents.</p><p>Castiel refocused on his own search. He honestly didn’t care what Sam did with the abandoned possessions, whomever they belonged to. “Keep whatever you want,” he said.</p><p>“Jeez, don’t tell ‘im that,” Dean muttered. “He’ll drag the whole damn thing home.”</p><p>They worked in silence for a little while longer, Castiel taking the insides of his trunk out and piling them carelessly onto the floor. He couldn’t help but notice that Dean was being somewhat ginger, which was unlike him. Regardless, there was nothing but more clothes inside the first trunk, so Castiel moved to the next.</p><p>Before he could open it, Dean said behind him, “Hey, Cas? Come here a sec.”</p><p>Castiel looked around, spotting the off-white piece of paper held in Dean’s hand. He was shining the light right on it, and Castiel could see the slanted lines of markings through the other side of the parchment. He walked over to Dean, who climbed to his feet to show him the page.</p><p>“There’s more of these,” he said. He bent over into the trunk, and pulled out a fat envelope stuffed with yellowing paper.</p><p>Castiel skimmed the page before he realized what it was. He gave a breath of laughter at the memory. “You wrote these to me,” he said. “In the first months of 1868, you took a leave to visit Sam in Boston.”</p><p>Sam looked up quickly at that, suddenly more interested than before. Castiel was too focused on the letter to notice him much.</p><p>“You wrote me every week until you came back,” he remembered. He’d written Dean back once a week, too, but he didn’t know what had become of those letters. He glanced up, wondering if Dean remembered that. He didn’t appear to, but his eyes were scanning Castiel’s face, his lips slightly parted. Castiel didn’t realize he was staring back until Sam appeared at their side.</p><p>“Dean writing love letters?” he laughed. “Now I <em>know</em> you're lying.”</p><p>Dean seemed to snap out of it, too. Half-offended and half-kidding, he said, “I can be romantic!”</p><p>Castiel brought his eyes back to the letter. “Well, most of them were explicit in nature.”</p><p>“That’s not romantic?” Dean said, wiggling his brows. Castiel rolled his eyes, despite the humor tugging at his lips.</p><p>“Can I see that?” Sam asked. Castiel handed it to him, and Sam barely skimmed the letter. He mostly just inspected it.</p><p>“It does look like Dean’s handwriting,” he allowed, and Castiel thought maybe he was coming around. But then he grinned, looking up. “So, how long did it take you guys to write these and hide them here?”</p><p>Perhaps Sam <em>wasn’t</em> coming around.</p><p>Dean groaned as he carded through the other letters in the envelope. “C’mon, Sam. Where the fuck would I find paper this old? And this place is covered with dust. Don’t you think we would have disturbed that just a little bit?”</p><p>Sam sighed. “I dunno, Dean. It’s more believable than reincarnation.”</p><p>“Uh-huh,” Dean said, suggested he hadn’t really been listening. He fished around inside the envelope to the very bottom and pulled something out. He held it up: a small, silver band dangling by a chain. The metal was scratched and tarnished black.</p><p>“The hell is this?” he asked.</p><p>Castiel had wondered where that had gotten to. He’d tucked it away for safekeeping before… Before he died.</p><p>“It was your mother’s,” he said. Dean lowered his arm, brow lining.</p><p>“I gave this to you,” Dean said, sounding both sure and unsure. Castiel nodded. He recalled the day Dean had gifted it to him—what Dean had said, what he hadn’t said, how he’d kissed Castiel when he’d accepted the token. And it looked like Dean remembered, too, or at least, he was close to remembering. Castiel hoped he did.</p><p>Sam cleared his throat, bringing them both back to the present.</p><p>“We should,” Castiel said slowly, “keep looking.”</p><p>Dean nodded. He dropped the ring back into the envelope and shoved the whole thing into his jacket pocket. Sam drifted back to the trunk he was looking through, and Castiel returned to the other. Inside, there were more clothes—mostly outerwear. Trying not to be discouraged, he shifted some of the jackets to the side for a cursory exploration. A thick leather book was hidden among the garments.</p><p>“Dean,” he said, heart in his throat. “I found it.”</p><p>Both Winchesters instantly stopped what they were doing. They shared a look before walking over. Castiel closed the trunk and rested the album on top. The leather was cracked and dry and, when he flipped the cover open, the paper was blotched yellow, curling inwards. The glue holding it to the binding had lost some of its hold.</p><p>There was only one picture to each page, held in place between thick, black cardboard. The first picture was of the manor in its prime, the exposure of the photograph too bright, making the lines nearly transparent. Castiel flipped the page to a sepia picture of a woman posing in a chair, a baby in her lap.</p><p>“My mother,” he said, nodding down at it. “And me.”</p><p>The next photograph was a wedding portrait—a man in a black suit and a woman in a lace gown. They frowned at the camera, but Castiel remembered how happy his sister had been on that day. He’d been happy for her, even though it was mixed with bitterness from the fact that she was leaving him alone.</p><p>“Anna,” Dean said, forehead wrinkled in concentration. “That’s your sister.”</p><p>Castiel was surprised he remembered her. Dean had only met Anna once when she and her husband visited for Christmas. Besides, after so many years, Castiel himself hardly remembered what Anna had looked like. It was nice to see her again, even like this.</p><p>He flipped to the next photograph, his own image looking back at him. It was the picture he’d been looking for.</p><p>It was a headshot, but he was wearing a suit and tie. It was his graduation portrait. Dean let out a shallow laugh, causing Castiel to glance up at him. He then looked to Sam, who was staring down at the picture like he was trying to find a way to disprove it.</p><p>“You said you had one of me,” Dean said, voice raising slightly at the end to indicate a question.</p><p>“Yes.” Castiel pried open the cardboard holding the graduation portrait. There was another photograph, smaller and slightly torn in one corner, hidden behind it. He ignored the inscription handwritten on the back and flipped it over.</p><p>He always liked this picture. In the image, Dean looked about the same age he was now, possibly a little older. He was in his Union Army uniform, the picture from the bust up. He stared off to the side of the photograph, a vignette around him. In all those years alone, Castiel had wished he could see this photograph again. He’d almost forgotten how handsome Dean was.</p><p>Dean was shining his light at the photograph, eyes hard and unmoving, jaw clenched.</p><p>“That’s…” Sam stammered out. “No, that’s not—”</p><p>“See for yourself,” Castiel told him, offering the photograph. Sam hesitated slightly before taking it and inspecting it. His eyes flickered from the image to his brother, like he was comparing the two, even though he didn’t need to.</p><p>He flipped it over, reading the inscription aloud, “Sergeant D. Wesson, 13<sup>th</sup> Mass Infantry Regiment.” He swallowed, and finished, “1863.”</p><p>Dean hadn’t talked about the war often. When he did, it was usually some humorous anecdote about one of the men he’d served with. But, sometimes, rarely, he spoke of the more trying times. He would have nightmares—most of them centered around one battle in particular. When he woke up from them, he would have a thousand-yard stare, his features slack and dead.</p><p>He was wearing that same expression right now.</p><p>“Dean,” Castiel prompted in a whisper, not wanting to spook him.</p><p>It took a long while, but eventually Dean blinked. He let out a slow breath. On the heels of it, he gasped, “It’s real.”</p><p>Castiel pressed his lips together. “It’s real,” he confirmed.</p><p>He glanced at Sam, who was still staring down at the photograph, but he seemed to be looking straight through it. Castiel knew he believed them now.</p><p>He refocused on Dean, who looked back as though, despite his previous assurance on the matter, he’d only just started believing it himself.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>1866</strong>
</p><p>He couldn’t do this. Not again.</p><p>Castiel was sitting on the couch in the music room, slouching back on the upholstery and doing his absolute best not to roll his eyes as the man in front of him kept talking. Always talking. Never shutting up.</p><p>“Mr. Lafitte in the kitchen has prepared three menu choices for the event,” Zachariah was saying. He pulled some paper out from the leather folder he was holding open and reached across the table, offering it to Castiel.</p><p>Castiel stared back at him for a long time before giving up. There was no use trying to fight it. He sighed, and leaned forward to snatch the page. He glanced down at it, barely taking in any of the options. Benny’s peach cobbler wasn’t an option, he noticed, which was a shame. Perhaps the only thing that would spark Castiel’s interest in the dinner party was peach cobbler.</p><p>“I’m preferable to the beef bourguignon as the main course myself,” Zachariah told him.</p><p>Castiel let the page drop to the table. “Fine. Are we done?” He really hoped they were done. He’d been working on perfecting Beethoven’s <em>Moonlight Sonata</em> before he was interrupted. He’d known about the upcoming dinner party since his father’s letter came in three days ago. However, he was surprised when he was told his father wouldn’t be returning for it, and that Zachariah would oversee the event.</p><p>That was certainly new. It likely came on the heels of the news of Hannah Johnson’s engagement. The pool of eligible women was drying up, and if Castiel didn’t find a wife soon…</p><p>He didn’t know how to finish that sentence. He wasn’t certain what dire circumstances would come to be if he remained a bachelor. He would still inherit the manor after his father’s passing and, beyond that, it could go to Anna’s first-born son.</p><p>In fact, Anna and her husband could take the damn place now. Castiel couldn’t imagine spending the rest of his life trapped inside these walls.</p><p>But he held his tongue. His father wouldn’t want to hear such things, and there was nothing Castiel could do about it.</p><p>“Uh, not quite,” Zachariah told him. Castiel withered; it went ignored. “There’s the matter of the night’s entertainment. I’ve heard rumblings of a violinist from New Haven in the area. Does that tickle your fancy?”</p><p>“It doesn’t tickle,” Castiel told him flatly, but made a mental note of finding out who this violinist was. He’d like to hear them play, but he’d prefer to enjoy it instead of uncomfortably sit through a private concert to impress dignitaries.</p><p>“Then, what would you prefer? That I hire that medium who’s been advertising in the papers?” Zachariah’s teeth were on edge. Castiel could tell from his voice. He should quit while he’s ahead.</p><p>“If she’s any good, perhaps she can divine who I’m to marry,” he said instead.</p><p>Zachariah stared him down. “You can’t be serious.” Castiel didn’t blink. “Are you <em>trying</em> to get me to lose whatever’s left of my hair?”</p><p>Castiel was <em>trying</em> to get him to leave.</p><p>Unfortunately, he didn’t.</p><p>“Fine. We’ll come back to that matter. Shall we go over the list of invitees?” Without awaiting an answer, he took out another sheaf and placed it on the table in front of Castiel. Snidely, he went on, “Of course, I had to take the Masters off the list, after you told Mr. Masters in no uncertain terms that his daughter was a, let’s say, lady of the night.”</p><p>Castiel furrowed his brow. He hadn’t called Meg a whore. Of course, he’d seen Meg out on the town, usually with a different man every week, but Castiel didn’t care either way. She seemed to be enjoying herself, and he envied that of her. He liked Meg enough, but he didn’t want to marry her, and he was sure she’d grow tired of him in less than a month.</p><p>“The word I used was <em>abomination</em>,” he corrected. He remembered how offended Meg’s father had gotten when, just behind him, Meg had suppressed a laugh behind her hand. She’d never been shy about who she was.</p><p>Without so much as glancing at the rest of the list, Castiel stood up and paced back to the piano, hoping that would signify the end of the conversation.</p><p>But Zachariah let out a loud, disappointed sigh. “Castiel,” he reproved, “she was the third serious prospect you’ve sabotaged.”</p><p>Castiel rolled his eyes. <em>Sabotage</em> was a strong word. He licked the tips of his fingers and flipped back a few pages of the sheet music.</p><p>“It’s like you don’t <em>want</em> to find a wife!” Zachariah gave a small chuckle. “Why so gloomy? A hundred men would be <em>dying</em> to be in your position, myself included.”</p><p>Castiel very much hoped no one actually <em>wanted</em> to have their entire future decided for them without any say in the matter. “Then you marry one of them.” He began playing, hoping the butler would get the message.</p><p>Because Zachariah was right. Castiel didn’t want a wife. He’d never wanted any woman in that way. But that was something he could never say, and the implications were something he could never act upon.</p><p>God forbid it ever led to a scandal if it was found out that Charles Novak’s only son—gentleman, scholar, heir, everything proper about society—was himself the abomination.</p><p>“I’m just saying,” Zachariah said, holding up his free hand in surrender. “You’ll thank me one of these days.”</p><p>Castiel sincerely doubted that. He pointedly focused on his music, not saying another word. This conversation was over.</p><p>It took another long second, but eventually Zachariah gave up and left the room. Castiel’s fingers stilled on the keys.</p><p>He closed his eyes and told himself to breathe.</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p> </p><p>With every new gust of wind, another golden leaf drifted down from the oak tree under which Castiel sat. The most recent one landed on his outstretched ankle, its honey color a stark contrast to the black of his trousers. He leaned back against the rough bark, nestling himself in deeper between the roots, and propped up his knees. The leaf tumbled to the grass, but at least he was blocked from the breeze now. The pages of his book didn’t flutter so much.</p><p>Soon, it would be too cold to be outside for very long. He’d have to spend the long winter months in the manor. He never liked that much, being trapped indoors while night descended too fast. Sometimes, he didn’t know why he bothered getting out of bed, knowing the light wouldn’t last.</p><p>He squinted down at the pages of his book: a printing of Ovid’s <em>Metamorphoses</em> in the original Latin. Why he tried to keep up with his Latin, he didn’t know. He only truly used it for Sunday Mass, which he never actually went to except for when his father was home. And he’d almost completely forgotten classical Greek since his graduation last spring.</p><p>Perhaps he just wanted to keep his mind active now that his education was over.</p><p>No more languages, no more science or mathematics. No more poetry or piano lessons. He never needed to hunt stags or foxes again if he didn’t want to. And he never had to discuss philosophy—and thank God for that, because all his tutors and professors ever did was talk in circles and, curiously, when he tried to question their lessons, they weren’t open to a philosophical debate.</p><p>But, without the structure of education that he’d had from a young age, he wasn’t really sure what to do. He was in a stasis, simply waiting to inherit his father’s lands, his father’s house, his father’s business, his father’s life. And pondering that would only drive him insane.</p><p>It was best to stay occupied. So, Latin it was.</p><p>On the page, Orpheus was playing his lyre to charm Hades into freeing his love from the Underworld. Castiel knew the story, knew Orpheus’ fate. Never to join his beloved in death, to be cursed to stay in the world forever.</p><p>There was a crunch of leaves, and Castiel’s heart skipped a beat. No one ever ventured out this far to the edge of the property. He’d sought solace in this hiding place for years. Fearful that he’d been found, his head snapped up quickly, wide eyes landing on a set of green.</p><p>Dean pulled in a gasp, his work-gloved hand clasping his heart as if Castiel had given him a terrible fright by just sitting there. “Son of a bitch,” he muttered under his breath. He dropped his hand, leaving dirt on the front of his shirt. “Don't do that! You scared the shit out of me.”</p><p>Castiel tried not to wither. He supposed he’d have to find a new place to hide. He was just happy Zachariah hadn’t found him, but Dean could easily tell him. “Apologies.”</p><p>“What are you doing so far out here, anyway?” Dean asked, taking a few steps closer. He was hauling a canvas sack in one hand that looked to be filled with pulled weeds and fallen leaves. Castiel supposed he was there to pick up the oak’s shedding.</p><p>Castiel lifted his book off his knees, as if it wasn’t obvious. Dean’s face dawned with realization, and he seemed a little embarrassed. His cheeks colored slightly, and Castiel realized he had a smattering of freckles there. They crept up his temples and bridged his nose. Castiel wondered how many there were. Thousands. Millions. More than there were stars in the night sky.</p><p>“I come here for silence,” he said, hoping Dean would keep this between them. He really didn’t want to have to find another spot. He was preferable to this tree.</p><p>Dean raised his brows, jerking his head back a little. “Okay, then,” he said, tone clipped suddenly, and Castiel didn’t understand why until it was too late. He started turning away. “Wouldn’t wanna make it loud for you.”</p><p>Remorse curled in Castiel’s chest. He hadn’t meant to offend Dean. “No, I meant,” he tried, and Dean paused, “I don’t… want Zachariah knowing where to find me.” It sounded juvenile to say aloud. He was twenty-one years old; he wasn’t a child.</p><p>But the tenseness in Dean’s shoulders relaxed somewhat. He glanced up at the house across the grounds; then, he pulled the sack closer to the tree, concealing both it and himself from view. As he got closer, he ducked his head a little, glancing at the open pages on Castiel’s lap. “Secret’s safe with me.”</p><p>Castiel breathed, craning his head to look up at Dean. Dean seemed genuine. “Thank you.”</p><p>A long moment passed when all they did was stare at each other. Castiel wasn’t sure what to say next, but Dean’s eyes were a very nice shade of green. He wondered if anyone had ever used him as a model for a painting, or at least a photograph.</p><p>He realized Dean’s brows were furrowing in perplexity. Castiel blinked away. “Am I—” he started unsurely, “in your way of picking up leaves?”</p><p>“Huh? Nah,” Dean said, tearing his own eyes away. His Adam’s apple bobbed when he swallowed. “No. I was actually on my way to the cemetery.”</p><p>Castiel nodded. He hated going to the family cemetery. He was very aware of what the plot of dirt next to his mother would one day be. Sometimes, he wondered if he should get a head start on the decaying process by laying down there now. It probably wouldn’t make much difference.</p><p>“Apparently, Zach wants every inch of this place in shape for that dinner you’re hosting,” Dean was saying. “You know, in case anyone decides to skip dessert and pay a visit to Grandma Novak.”</p><p>Castiel hadn’t meant to laugh. He really hadn’t. It had been little more than a breath of air and a tugging at the corners of his lips directed at his lap. When he looked back up, Dean was giving him that same baffled expression as before.</p><p>“Well, perhaps my grandmother will pay us a visit instead,” he said. “There’s going to be a séance.” He honestly still couldn’t believe that Zachariah had inquired about the woman, and then actually hired her for the evening. Castiel had been being facetious; but, he supposed, without a lack of direction, Zachariah had no other option. It would certainly be an interesting night.</p><p>“What?” Dean exclaimed, half-humored. “You’re kidding. You got crucifixes in every room of this place.”</p><p>“Well, if my father doesn’t approve, he should have planned it himself.”</p><p>Dean shrugged, frowning in thought. “Fair enough. Or maybe you’re just a little too into the unnatural.” His eyes flickered down to the book. “Orpheus and Eurydice?” Castiel blinked, stunned. It must have been the reaction Dean wanted, because one corner of his mouth lifted haughtily. “Hey, I read.”</p><p>This man was certainly more than met the eye. Someone in Dean’s station didn’t commonly know how to read and write, much less in Latin. And, he remembered, Dean had known about Chopin. Perhaps Castiel was too quick to judge, but groundskeepers had no need for such things.</p><p>“So, what?” Dean asked then, before Castiel could fully recover. “You just get your kicks out of scaring the hell out of your future bride?”</p><p>Castiel felt his expression shutter at that. His shoulders went straight, back rigid against the tree. His chest was suddenly cold.</p><p>Dean didn’t appear to notice. “That’s what the dinner’s for, right? Wooing debutants?”</p><p>Castiel bit down on his jaw. He didn’t want to talk about this. He looked back down at his book. “Yes, it is,” he bit out. He closed his book.</p><p>It was a shame. He’d liked talking to Dean, but perhaps they’d both misjudged each other.</p><p>Castiel got to his feet, dusting himself off. “I won’t keep you,” he said, not looking at Dean fully before turning around.</p><p>Dean didn’t say anything for a few seconds. Castiel had taken four strides before Dean called, “Did I say something wrong?” There was a challenge in his tone, and that’s how Castiel knew he truly wouldn’t tell Zachariah about Castiel’s hiding spot. He had no respect for authority.</p><p>Castiel stopped walking abruptly. He kept his back straight. “No,” he said, fingers tightening around his book at his side. “Good day, Mr. Wesson.”</p><p>He left before Dean could call after him again.</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p> </p><p>The dinner was in two days, and with every passing moment Castiel’s anticipatory dread swelled higher and higher into his throat. Last night, he’d dreamed of a woman in a velvet robe and a witch’s hat standing beneath an archway of withered ivy. A faceless, veiled woman in a white lace dress stood beside her, a bouquet of dried roses in hand. Everything around them was a black void. With every slow step toward them, Castiel felt the darkness choking him. He woke up just before he reached the arch.</p><p>He wondered, since his father was on business, if it would be okay to cancel the event. But it was best to let it happen. He supposed there was no real risk, anyway.</p><p>Luckily, Balthazar called around that morning, effectively taking Castiel’s mind off the dinner. They’d been friends since Balthazar’s family moved to Hadley when he was still a boy, and despite his ostentation, Castiel was always grateful for his company.</p><p>They were in the backyard all morning, shooting at clay targets with pistols. One of the manor’s valets, Alfie, was in charge of launching the traps. The clay flung through the air, gray color blending with the overcast sky. Balthazar’s gun went off, the bullet missing its mark by a few degrees.</p><p>“Bloody hell,” Balthazar complained, lowering his smoking weapon. Alfie rushed across the lawn to retrieve the fallen target.</p><p>“You’re out of practice,” Castiel intoned from the sidelines. “Maybe if you chose smaller targets than deer, this wouldn’t be an issue.”</p><p>Balthazar shot him a pursed look. “Or, maybe if you chose more exciting targets than clay pheasant.” He looked off at the valet rushing back toward them, Alfie’s cheeks flushed with exertion. “At <em>least</em> give me a real bird to work with.”</p><p>Castiel tilted his head. He’d never understand the need for useless hunting. “That seems cruel.”</p><p>Balthazar’s breath misted in front of his face when he exhaled heavily. “No, what’s cruel is your desire to humiliate me. Don’t think I don’t know it.”</p><p>Idly, Castiel watched Alfie resetting the trap. “I have to occupy my time somehow.”</p><p>“You need a woman,” Balthazar told him pointedly, and so much for taking his mind off of things. On second thought, maybe Castiel wasn’t as grateful for Balthazar’s friendship as he’d said he was. He glared at his companion. Balthazar only waved it away. “Oh, don’t give me that look. I know, I know. Or—actually, no, I don’t. Pray tell, what’s your opposition again?”</p><p>Castiel didn’t answer. He never did, because Balthazar wouldn’t understand. Balthazar, who remained a bachelor not because he didn’t want a woman, but because he wanted many.</p><p>Castiel looked off to avoid replying. He scanned the grounds, watching the horses being led back into the stables, the dogs yapping around their legs. A few staff members were cleaning the outer windows of the manor’s lower level. And then his eyes snagged on the person shearing the hedges in one of the gardens.</p><p>He hadn’t meant to look, and he told himself to look away. Dean had been in the same spot all morning, taking his sweet time at his task. In fact, it was almost as if he was clipping a leaf at a time just so he could linger. Every now and again, Castiel felt Dean’s watchful eyes on him. Every now and again, Castiel glanced back, but only when he knew Dean was looking away.</p><p>Dean seemed interested in the target practice. Or, at least, he seemed interested in Castiel’s target practice. He never looked over while Balthazar was shooting. And, whenever it was Castiel’s turn, his muscles went anxiously taut. He’d never cared much for shooting. He wasn’t certain why he cared so much about it today.</p><p>The trap sprung, launching the clay in an arc through the air. Balthazar’s gunshot echoed through the grounds. Castiel’s heart jumped, not having expected it. He turned his attention back to the sport.</p><p>Balthazar missed again.</p><p>“Oh, for the love of—I’m through! Cassie, take this away from me,” he said petulantly, holding out the pistol for Castiel to take. Castiel bit back an amused smile and relieved him of the weapon. While Alfie ran across the lawn again, Castiel checked how many bullets were left.</p><p>Castiel waited for Alfie to return and reset the trap. He held himself steady, despite the roiling in his gut. Pointedly, he did not glance at Dean to see if he was watching. What did it matter, anyway? It didn’t. Except perhaps for the strange orbit he felt whenever Dean was in his vicinity—a push and pull, keeping them at a distance, but in the way similarly charged magnets are kept apart. In the way that felt on the brink of collapse. And it was a wonder, to viscerally understand why the moon revolves around the earth.</p><p>“Pull,” he told Alfie, and there was the crack of the catapult being relieved of its tension. The clay flung through the air. Castiel watched its trajectory. His shot cracked through the air, and there was the distant sound of the clay shattering as it fell to earth. Alfie let out a whooping cheer.</p><p>“Show-off,” Balthazar said.</p><p>Castiel ducked his head, turning slightly, surreptitiously glancing at Dean. As ever, Dean was trimming the hedge.</p><p>“You’re aware there’s no point in this skill if you don’t use it?” Balthazar told him, a sore loser. And Castiel thought he should point out the same was true for poetry and portraiture. However, just as he opened his mouth, he caught sight of Dean sauntering toward them. Castiel wasn’t certain what his expression did, but he felt his eyes widen. He stood straighter.</p><p>“What is it?” Balthazar asked, but Castiel hardly heard him. He looked over his shoulder, seeing Dean—who was <em>definitely</em> walking right toward them. He was resting the shears over one shoulder and was pulling off his gloves. “Isn’t that your gardener?”</p><p>Castiel tore his eyes away. He ducked his head, hoping that, if he ignored him, Dean would change course. He didn’t. “Why is he coming over here?” he asked. He could feel adrenaline in the tips of his fingers. He could hear it rushing through his ears.</p><p>None of the other staff members—barring Zachariah—ever disturbed Castiel throughout the day. And this would make three times Dean had done it. Why did he keep doing that? What did he want? Was it deliberate?</p><p>Balthazar gave an airy chuckle. “Well, how should I know?”</p><p>Before Castiel could respond, Dean was upon them. “Hey,” he said simply, as though this were ordinary.</p><p>Balthazar looked at him up and down. “Hello.”</p><p>Castiel felt too stiff. He forced himself to look at Dean, and he nodded. “Hello, Dean,” he said, tone tight.</p><p>“So, uh, nice aim,” Dean complimented, briefly casting his eyes toward Alfie, who’d collected the spent target and was currently hastening back. There was dirt on his cheeks, hiding his freckles. “Little to the left though. You’re firing a second too early.”</p><p>Castiel blinked, completely thrown. He wasn’t certain how to respond to that—how to feel about it. Irritation prickled in his gut, overcoming the tension that arrested him during Dean’s arrival. “I’m… What?”</p><p>“Yeah,” Dean went on, tone pleasant. He shrugged. “Thought you’d—I dunno. Maybe want some pointers.”</p><p>Balthazar snorted, fighting down a laugh.</p><p>Castiel kept staring ahead, wondering after Dean’s audacity. “Pointers,” he echoed. And then, “My aim is excellent.” He didn’t like shooting, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t good at it. And, besides, is that why Dean had been watching him all morning? Castiel had thought he was impressed, but it seemed the man was just thinking up new ways of offending him outright.</p><p>Dean hummed, pulling down the corners of his mouth. “Ah, you’re a little to the left,” he said again, voice going up an octave. It was condescending.</p><p>Castiel seethed. “I hit the target.”</p><p>“Well, you <em>nicked</em> it.” Dean stuck the shears into the ground. He shoved his gloves into the back pocket of his trousers.</p><p>No. Castiel’s aim was perfect. He turned to Alfie, holding out his hand. “Alfie, if I could see the target?”</p><p>Alfie looked between the two of them unsurely. He stepped forward, handing over the clay. Castiel inspected it. The entire left side was blown off. He held it up to prove his point.</p><p>Dean popped his brows, pointing at the target. “See? Nicked it.”</p><p>“Oh, no, he has a point, Castiel,” Balthazar said, egging Dean on.</p><p>Castiel shot him a glower before returning to Dean. “And <em>you</em> can do better?”</p><p>“Well,” Dean said, letting it hang in the air, but his meaning was obvious.</p><p>“Fine.” Castiel turned to the valet. “Alfie, reset. Mr. Wesson would like a turn.”</p><p>Dean waved toward Alfie. “Nah, kid, don’t worry about it.” Castiel snapped his attention back to Dean. So, Dean was already backing down? But then Dean asked him, “You got a dime?”</p><p>Castiel narrowed his eyes at him. “A dime.”</p><p>“Or a penny. You know what a penny is, right?”</p><p>“Why wouldn’t I know what a penny is?”</p><p>He hadn’t noticed Balthazar digging through his pockets until he held out a coin. “I’ve a nickel. Will that do?”</p><p>Dean didn’t break eye contact with Castiel. Castiel didn’t back down from the challenge. He told himself not to even blink.</p><p>“Great,” Dean said. He held out his hand. “The gun?”</p><p>Castiel’s grip tightened around the weapon. He hesitated, then pressed the pistol into Dean’s palm. Dean’s thumb grazed the inside of his wrist. Castiel pulled away quickly, fighting to swallow.</p><p>“Alright,” Dean said, finally averting his eyes to check the chamber. Satisfied, he told Balthazar, “Do me a favor and toss that.”</p><p>“Toss it?” Balthazar asked, tone licked with humor. “Anywhere?”</p><p>“Anywhere,” Dean confirmed with a nod. He held the gun up at the ready.</p><p>“Very well.” Balthazar reeled back his arm. He threw the coin at full strength. It spiraled through the air.</p><p>Dean’s jaw clenched, eyes going hard. The gun boomed, and there was a loud, tinny sound of a bullet ricocheting off metal. The coin glinted in the weak sunlight as it crashed toward the ground.</p><p>Dean relaxed his body, lips already pulled into a smug smirk. He passed the gun off to Balthazar. Castiel kept looking at him, expression neutral. His mind was blank. Dean walked toward where the coin had dropped, and Castiel’s eyes followed after him. He watched the bow of Dean’s legs, his easy gait. Dean stopped, searching the ground momentarily before bending down and picking the coin up from the grass. He came back, and by that time, Castiel could feel sensation on his skin again.</p><p>The cold was tickling the tip of his nose and fingers. Inside, at the very heart of him, he felt too hot. He didn’t know if it was due to anger or something else. Whatever it was, it caused a tightness in his ribs.</p><p>He wasn’t quite sure why he held out his hand, but Dean dropped the coin into it. The metal was heated and warped into a concave shape, bending out from the dead center. Castiel’s eyes flickered back up to Dean.</p><p>“Like I said,” Dean told him, eyes glinting, “you’re a little to the left.” He hoisted the shears out of the grass then, winked, and walked away.</p><p>Balthazar was laughing. When he was through, he said, “My, my. Who <em>is</em> that fellow?”</p><p>Castiel wondered the same thing. He couldn’t stop watching Dean. Dean didn’t look back. He waved toward someone across the lawn, but Castiel didn’t turn to see who. “He’s…” Castiel didn’t have the word for it.</p><p>Enigmatic?</p><p>Irritating? Beguiling?</p><p>Remarkable? Arrogant? Enchanting? Completely unfathomable?</p><p>“Frustrating,” he decided.</p><p>“Frustrating, is he?” Balthazar teased. “Careful, Castiel. Someone might think you’re smitten.”</p><p>Castiel looked away from Dean quickly. He clocked the pistol hanging at Balthazar’s side. “I believe it’s your turn,” he said, not meaning for it to come through his teeth.</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p> </p><p>Dinner had been an elaborate affair. Three generations sat at the long, cedar table that was adorned in lace cloth and freshly cut roses in antique vases. Jo used her skill as a violinist to play during the meal, and Castiel always wondered why such talent was wasted mopping the floors. The old women generally kept to themselves, as did the men. The girls sometimes ventured away from their huddled whispers to offer Castiel their hand to kiss and to compliment him on the opulence of the evening that Zachariah had put so much hard work into.</p><p>It was all the familiar faces: Akobel and Efram, and thankfully Gabriel; Hael, Miriam, and Duma. He caught sight of Daphne and April seated at the ends of the table, too. Balthazar wasn’t in attendance, and he couldn’t help but think that was purposeful. Zachariah likely “lost” his invitation, probably because his goal was to make this night as unpleasant and possible for Castiel.</p><p>After dessert, the older crowd remained in the dining room for tea and coffee, while Castiel followed his peers into the foyer. A round table had been set up in the center of the room. There was a woman there, waves of shockingly red hair cascading around her shoulders. She wore a dark dress and cloak, and her face was heavily made up. She was sitting leaning over the table, lighting candles and placing them around something she’d drawn in chalk on the surface.</p><p>As Castiel approached, he saw it was a strange symbol: a triangle enclosed in a circle. Smaller symbols had been drawn both inside and around it. In the center of the triangle, a silver bowl of smoldering herbs sat. There was a thick book open to the side of the woman.</p><p>She glanced up at the group, a catlike smile coming to her face. “Welcome, welcome! Please have a seat,” she said cheerfully, a brogue accenting her words, and Castiel wondered if that was real or staged for effect. Around him, people were chattering excitedly as they found their seats at the table.</p><p>Gabriel came up behind him, clapping him on the shoulder. “Ready to be <em>spooked</em>?” he chortled. Then, he pointed at Castiel’s face and said, “This better be good. I wanna have nightmares.”</p><p>“Nightmares,” Castiel echoed, sitting down next to Gabriel. “Interesting request.”</p><p>Gabriel only shrugged and hummed.</p><p>The medium took her seat as well, sliding it in closer to the table. “Welcome, all, to a night you won’t soon forget. My name is Rowena, and I will be your guide for the evening,” she said, and Castiel tried not to audibly sigh. The fact that they were doing this at all was hilarious, but at least everyone seemed to be having a good time. He knew Zachariah likely wasn’t happy.</p><p>He glanced over at the stairs, where the butler was hovering. He wasn’t openly scowling, but there was an air of displeasure about him. Satisfied, Castiel meant to turn his focus back to the group—but something in entrance to the hallway caught his attention.</p><p>Dean was there, peering in at the proceedings, his gaze on Rowena. Castiel narrowed his eyes to see him better. Dean’s jaw was set, expression hard and unreadable. Perhaps he objected to paganism as well, but he hadn’t appeared offended the other day.</p><p>He must have sensed he was being watched. His eyes flickered to Castiel, catching them momentarily before Rowena prompted, “Everyone join hands.” She held out her own, and Castiel felt Gabriel nudge him. He tore his eyes away from Dean, glancing at Gabriel’s upturned palm on the table. He placed his own there, and put his other hand in Elijah’s. When he looked back at the hallway, Dean was gone.</p><p>“Excellent,” Rowena said, looking around the table. “We will begin by attempting to make contact with the spirit realm. Should the departed choose to speak, I will be used as a conduit.” Her voice became lower, darker: “But I must warn you, there are times an entity decides to make itself known through other means. Should you experience anything—breath on your neck, a touch, a whisper—do not be afraid. I assure you, I will have everything perfectly under control.”</p><p>Castiel glanced around. Most of the people around the table appeared to hang on her every word, which was likely important to the power of suggestion. Now, every time someone got an itch, they’d blame a spirit.</p><p>“Let us begin,” Rowena said. She paused for a long time, tilting her head back and closing her eyes. In Latin, she began to chant, “Spirits, I reach through the veil to summon you to the realm of the living. Hear me, spirits! Return! Show me your face so that I know you are real!” She repeated again, and then again. “Show me your face so that—<em>Oh</em>.”</p><p>Everyone around the table seemed to hold their breath in anticipation.</p><p>Rowena opened her eyes and brought her head down. “Someone has come through. Does anyone here know a Thomas?”</p><p>Across the table, Daphne gasped slightly. “My father’s name was Thomas.”</p><p>It was getting harder by the second to contain an eyeroll. Because, really, Castiel could conduct this séance himself if all it took was pulling a common name out of thin air.</p><p>“Dearie,” Rowena said, smiling over at Daphne. “Your father is here with us.”</p><p>The girls around Daphne shared excited looks, and Rowena kept talking, but Castiel didn’t listen. Now that everyone was occupied, he could take a break. With any luck, no one would come looking for him. He slipped his hands out of Gabriel’s and Elijah’s and pushed his chair back.</p><p>“You’re leaving <em>now</em>? Can’t you hold it in?” Gabriel said in a harsh whisper. “It’s just getting good!”</p><p>“I’ll be right back,” Castiel lied.</p><p>As quietly as he could, he crossed the room to the hallway, pointedly ignoring the way Zachariah’s eyes were following him.</p><p>He went straight to the music room, pulling the door closed and resting his forehead against it. He breathed, telling himself that he was in the clear. His father wasn’t even present. A match wouldn’t be picked for him tonight.</p><p>“Did Granny show her face, after all?” someone said behind him.</p><p>Castiel practically got whiplash with the speed in which he looked around. Dean was on the couch, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. A plate was one in one hand, a fork in the other. He scooped up a piece of the cake that had been served for dessert and shoveled it into his mouth. In the flickering light of the sconces, his skin was bathed in amber.</p><p>Castiel willed his heart to slow. All it did was stammer some more. “Dean,” he breathed out.</p><p>Dean popped his brows. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”</p><p>“You didn’t.” Castiel paced further into the room. “What are you doing here?”</p><p>Dean scraped at the china to get the last bit of cake. “Benny had some leftovers. Didn’t want them to go to waste. Figured it was better to eat in here than get in the way of dish washing duty.”</p><p>“Meaning, you wanted to get out of dish washing duty?” Castiel teased, coming to a rest on the opposite side of the table.</p><p>Dean looked up at him, eyes sparkling as he grinned. His cheeks puffed out, still full of cake, and Castiel tried to decide if that was undignified or endearing. “Not my job.” Castiel nodded sidelong, unable to argue. Dean swallowed, cleared his throat, and said, “So, what, party’s over?”</p><p>The reminder made Castiel cringe somewhat. He turned away, seating himself at the piano bench. He rubbed at his temple. “No.”</p><p>“Good. Thought I’d missed the dancing.” The plate and fork clinked as Dean set them down on the table.</p><p>Castiel withdrew his hand from his face, staring at Dean curiously. He hadn’t expected Dean to know how to waltz. “There won’t be any tonight, but you’re more than welcome to take my place in the future.”</p><p>Shrugging, Dean said, “Deal. I’ll dance with some pretty girls. How hard can it be?”</p><p>So, he <em>didn’t</em> know how to dance. Castiel didn’t know why he was disappointed by that. “That doesn’t inspire confidence.”</p><p>“Don’t be so stuck up,” Dean groaned. He got to his feet, waving a lofty hand toward the piano. “I’ll show you how easy it is. Give me something to work with.”</p><p>Castiel arched a brow at him, wondering if he was serious. He was.</p><p>Turning fully to the piano, he flexed his fingers, thinking. He decided on Mozart’s <em>Allegro</em>. When the music started playing, Dean walked around the table, stood dead center of the room, bowed low, and then proceeded to do the worst rendition of a waltz Castiel had ever seen in his life.</p><p>It couldn’t even be called a waltz. Dean’s arms were up in the air as if he were holding a dancing partner, but they were positioned incorrectly, and all he did was twirl around.</p><p>Castiel stopped playing abruptly. Was Dean making fun of him? “You’re joking.”</p><p>Dean stopped short, letting his hands fall to his sides. There was a wide grin on his face, and Castiel felt as if all the oxygen in his lungs had gotten trapped in his chest. “What?” Dean exclaimed, suggesting he knew exactly <em>what</em>. “You didn’t even give me a chance!”</p><p>“<em>Dean</em>!”</p><p>“<em>What</em>?” Dean repeated, laughing now. Castiel felt a smile stretching his cheeks. He couldn’t quite recall the last time he’d had one on his face for so long—or at all.</p><p>“Fine,” Dean acquiesced. “I’m a lousy dancer. But I’ll tell you what I am good at.” Castiel’s face fell. He watched Dean cross the room to the window. He drew back the drapes and opened the window before glancing over his shoulder. He wiggled his brows. “Sneaking out of shitty parties.”</p><p>Castiel didn’t know what to do other than stare at him for a long time. Dean was waiting on an answer, but Castiel didn’t know if he could provide one. Logic told him to say no. He’d only meant to leave the room for a short period of time. If he was gone for too long, Zachariah would no doubt come looking for him. But something was fluttering in his gut, daring him on.</p><p>“Dean,” he said severely, “if Zachariah finds out…”</p><p>Dean pulled a face. “What’s the worst that could happen?”</p><p>Considering, Castiel said, “Well, you could get fired.” Nothing bad would happen to Castiel. Not really. Zachariah could tell his father, but that would mean he’d have to admit that he wasn’t suited for planning an event. He’d never be asked to do it again. Zachariah would never willingly make himself look bad.</p><p>“Okay. I didn’t rat on your secret. So you don’t rat on me,” Dean said, like it was simple. He climbed out of the window, seeming to decide for Castiel.</p><p>Castiel remained still, torn between going and staying. He <em>knew</em> he should stay. He just didn’t want to. At all.</p><p>Dean stuck his head back inside. “You coming or what?”</p><p>“Yes,” Castiel decided, giving in. He went to the window and Dean stepped back, careful not to trample on the flowerbed. He offered his hand, and Castiel took it as he climbed out. It was awkward, and he thought he’d get stuck at one point, but Dean pulled him through, and then Castiel was standing in the hydrangea. When Dean let go of him, Castiel shuddered slightly in the cold night.</p><p>Dean turned away, already walking, but Castiel was momentarily distracted by a stinging, gritty feeling on his palm. He held it up to his face, and in the dim light, he could make out the shimmering of tiny crystals, like salt. He glanced back at the windowsill, and found more of it scattered there. He had no earthly idea how something like that happened.</p><p>“Come on!” he heard Dean hiss up ahead. Castiel looked at him and quickly brushed it off his palm.</p><p>He followed Dean away from the house, not knowing exactly where he was being led. Every now and again, he glanced over his shoulder, expecting to be caught. No one was rushing after them, and the manor was getting further away with every step closer to the woods at the back of the property.</p><p>Eventually, Castiel turned his gaze forward completely. He watched Dean’s shadow shift in the darkness. The outline of his shoulders were only just visible by the light of the crescent moon. He carried himself guardedly, as if all his secrets might spill out if he allowed himself to relax—and Castiel felt himself wondering what was underneath the humor, underneath the rough bluster. His gaze traveled down to Dean’s long legs. He realized he was staring.</p><p>He picked up his pace until he was at Dean’s side. By then, they’d past the oak tree. They were almost at the woods. Castiel eyed the tree line skeptically. He tried to twist the cold from his hands. “Where are we going?”</p><p>“Wanna show you something,” Dean said vaguely.</p><p>Castiel squinted at him dubiously. “Show me what?”</p><p>When Dean chuckled, his breath formed around his lips before dissolving into the air. “You’ll see.” He stepped into the trees.</p><p>Castiel hung back momentarily to cast one last look at the manor. He wondered if he should turn back. But, no—he didn’t want to. He was curious.</p><p>He followed Dean, weaving through the trees, stepping over rocks and bramble, the leaves crunching crisply under their shoes. It didn’t take long for him to regret his decision of not going back to the warmth of the house. “It’s pitch black out here,” he complained. They didn’t even have the moonlight to go by anymore. His toe hit a rock. Frustrated now, he demanded, “Dean, where are we—”</p><p>“Relax,” Dean said easily. “We’re almost there.”</p><p>It took another minute before Castiel heard the trickling of water. Dean led him to a less densely wooded area, where a brook cut through boulders. The moonlight was able to filter through, bringing with it the scattered stars.</p><p>Dean held his arms out. “So? What d’you think?” he asked proudly.</p><p>Castiel didn’t understand. It was a stream in the forest. He blinked around, uncertain as to how Dean wanted him to answer. “It’s…”</p><p>But, apparently, Dean hadn’t been waiting for a response. He pulled out a rolled cigarette and a matchbook from his pocket. He fit it between his lips, striking the match. The end burned orange in the night.</p><p>Smoke curling around his face, he said, “This is still part of the grounds, so you can do anything you want with it.” He paced over to a tree, placing his palm on it like he was testing its sturdiness, before turning back around to face Castiel and leaning against it. “Figure, maybe clear the leaves and branches away, pull out some of the underbrush.” He used his cigarette to point to the left of where Castiel was standing, between two closely placed trees. “Put a bench there. Maybe plant some flowers.”</p><p>Castiel was well and truly lost now. He shook his head. “Why?”</p><p>“Why,” Dean echoed, deadpan. “Because your hiding place sucks, Cas. Anyone can stumble on it. This one’s more out of the way and, with a little love, it could be… I dunno. Nice.”</p><p>All of it was far too overwhelming. Castiel knew what all those words meant—separately. But together?</p><p>“You… want to build me a garden?” he asked slowly. He wasn’t sure why the words had gotten lodged in his throat, or why he could hear his heart in his ears, or why his skin had warmed despite the cold.</p><p>Dean pulled down the corners of his lips and lifted his shoulders. “Sure, under one condition.” He held up one finger. “You let me borrow it when Zach pisses me off, too.”</p><p>Castiel’s eyes fell downward. It was difficult to look at Dean suddenly, even though it was all he wanted to do. “I… don’t have a problem sharing.”</p><p>“Awesome,” Dean said. He sniffed in the cold. And that, apparently, was that. Dean pushed off the tree trunk and went closer to the brook. He sat down on the ground, arms propped up on his knees. Castiel hesitated, pulse rushing faster than the bubbling water, and joined him. The ground was hard and damp.</p><p>They sat in silence for a long time. Castiel didn’t know how long, but he could feel the heat coming off Dean’s body in the proximity, their shoulders just shy of brushing. He could hear Dean’s breathing.</p><p>And then Dean asked, “So, why <em>did</em> you sneak away from the party, anyway?”</p><p>Castiel had been expecting the question, but maybe part of him had dreaded Dean asking it. But, now that he had, Castiel wasn’t afraid. It was easy telling Dean the truth. “I don’t want to get married.”</p><p>He’d never said that aloud before.</p><p>Dean turned his head, regarding Castiel. Castiel looked back, meeting his eyes. He tried to gauge Dean’s reaction. Dean didn’t seem to judge him. “Okay. Then, just… don’t.”</p><p>Castiel averted his gaze. There was a pressure rising up his throat. “It’s not that simple.”</p><p>Dean snorted. “Why not? It’s not like you’re a woman. You’d still get the inheritance, right?”</p><p>“Well, yes,” Castiel admitted. He sighed heavily. “But… there are certain things required of me. In this—” He didn’t know how to finish that. Life? Social standing? Family?</p><p>He looked back at the stream, watching the moonlight catch the water. He said, “My life is not my own.”</p><p>Dean stayed quiet for a second, until he said, “Well, maybe getting married would change that. You know, get your dad to stop butting in.” He probably thought he was being helpful.</p><p>Castiel wanted to laugh. Even if he was attracted to women, marriage would only complicate matters. His life would be about providing for his wife, his children. Whatever freedom he had left would be dictated by others. His own happiness wouldn’t matter, if it ever had.</p><p>“No, it wouldn’t,” he said simply.</p><p>Dean didn’t appear to know what to say to that. He turned to the water, too. “Sorry. That sounds shitty.”</p><p>Castiel jutted out his jaw, nodding. “But that isn’t the only reason I left,” he said, regaining Dean’s interest. Flatly, he added, “I don’t believe in séances.”</p><p>It must have taken a second for the joke to process, but Dean scoffed out a laugh and shook his head. “Oh, no?”</p><p>“No.” Castiel watched Dean’s profile. His rounded nose and strong jawline and plush lips. He recalled seeing Dean in the hallway, looking in on the beginning of the séance. Curious, he asked, “Do you?”</p><p>The smile on Dean’s face dimmed. He paused, and then said, “No. No, at least… not the kind that’s going on in there.”</p><p>Castiel knitted his brows together. “Is there another kind?”</p><p>Dean shrugged again. He looked down at the ground, pulling at some of the grass. “It’s just… that stuff—it’s not good to mess with it, is all.”</p><p>It sounded like he was actually concerned. “Dean,” Castiel said. “It isn’t real.”</p><p>Dean’s eyes snapped back up to him, wide and alert. Castiel didn’t know what to make of it. But, before he could ask, Dean’s expression melted back into ease. “Yeah, no—maybe you’re right. I’m being dumb.”</p><p>“You aren’t dumb,” Castiel said, much too quickly. Realizing his blunder, he tried to cover it by adding, “And if… my grandmother’s spirit does return from beyond the grave, I promise to protect you from her terrible crocheting.”</p><p>Dean laughed again. Castiel was happy to be the reason for that. “Thanks, Cas,” he played along.</p><p>Anna always called him Cas. So did Balthazar. It sounded different when Dean said it.</p><p>Castiel looked back at the brook. He imagined a small garden in the forest, one only he and Dean knew about. He very much liked the idea of that.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>kk so i know clay targets for shooting weren't invented for another few decades and they still used pigeons in the 1860s for target practice but.......... as much as i hate pigeons (i'm from new york) i didn't want to kill any haha. so, if any of you nerds out there caught this historical inaccuracy.... just let it slide!</p><p>thanks for reading! would love to hear your thoughts in the comments &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Happy Destiel Wedding Day!!!!!!!! hope we're all ready for the reception &lt;3 love this for us</p><p>anyway, welcome back! not much to say here, except the lovely <a href="https://lilac-void.tumblr.com/">lilac-void</a> created <a href="https://lilac-void.tumblr.com/post/642981083932229632/when-i-say-deanwinchestercodeds-stories-stay">this beautiful piece of fanart</a> for chapter 3 of this fic and i want to show it off &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>2020</strong>
</p><p>Dean opened his bedroom door, two steaming cups of coffee in one hand, hooked precariously around his knuckles. He nearly spilled them both when Cas woke up with a start, practically gasping awake. Alert blue eyes swept to Dean.</p><p>Dean held up his free hand in surrender, and Cas appeared to settle. But he still looked spooked, cheeks pallid. He sat up in bed.</p><p>“Since when are you such a light sleeper?” Dean asked, kicking the door closed behind him. “You usually sleep like the dead—no pun intended.”</p><p>“Very funny,” Cas intoned, accepting one of the coffees from Dean. Dean sat on the edge of the mattress, the two of them silent for a few seconds, just sipping their drinks, until Cas’ eyes flickered to the clock on Dean’s nightstand. It was just pushing 8:30. “How long have you been up?”</p><p>Dean shrugged, looking down into his coffee. “A little while,” he deflected, trying not to let on that the answer was <em>for three hours</em>. He’d barely slept anyway. He had too much on his mind. And, when unconsciousness finally did manage to pull him under, he’d had a terrible dream. He was on a battlefield, chaos and smoke rising around him. Men on horseback were charging all around him, weapons drawn. Everywhere he looked, there were fallen soldiers. The grass was practically red with blood.</p><p>He cleared his throat, attempting to get rid of the terror lodged there, choking him. He could still feel the bayonet in his hands, dirt and sweat on his brow, blood on his hands.</p><p>And then Cas asked, “Do you have classes again today?”</p><p>Dean blinked, righting himself. “One,” he said, and Cas looked a little crestfallen. “But not for another few hours. Figured you and me could… I dunno. Get breakfast at the diner?”</p><p>Dean was actually kind of excited to bring him there. Sure, it was just sitting in a restaurant, but it was an All-American <em>diner</em>. That’d be a new experience for Cas. Dean wanted to be there for all his new experiences.</p><p>And besides, they should probably talk. Because Dean still didn’t remember very much, but knowing that his past life was <em>real</em>—seeing his own face staring back at him in a photograph—was surreal. He didn’t really know where to go from there.</p><p>“They’ll have more coffee,” Dean assured him, and he even got a tug of a smile out of Cas.</p><p>“I’d like that,” Cas said before taking another sip.</p><p>“Okay. Breakfast date it is.” He hated how giddy those words made him feel, even if they were a joke. He and Cas had never <em>dated</em>, at least not that he knew of. It would be cool having one now. “C’mon, get up and get dressed.” He drifted forward, meaning to leave a quick peck on Cas’ lips before getting up—but then Cas chased after him, landing another kiss.</p><p>And then another. And another.</p><p>Until they were kissing in earnest, Cas’ hand, warmed by the coffee mug, on Dean’s neck, Dean’s free hand resting on the front of Cas’ t-shirt. Cas was giving off soft grunting noises that Dean could feel rumbling on his lips, and then reverberate down his body, mixing with the first stirrings of his dick.</p><p>And he definitely preferred this to <em>talking</em>.</p><p>Drawing away slightly, he took in Cas’ mussed hair, the sleepy lines of his face, the slickness on his lips from kissing. His eyes were dilated, just a rim of blue around his pupils. He might have been the most stunning thing Dean had ever seen. All thoughts of everything else—blood and carnage and the past—disappeared.</p><p>Pulling a smirk, Dean suggested, “Or we can stay in bed for a little longer.”</p><p>Cas’ eyes darkened, and Dean’s gaze fell to his mouth, watching him form the words, “I’d like that, too.”</p><p>Dean lifted the coffee mug from Cas’ hand and set it on the desk along with his own. He turned fully to Cas, climbing to his hands and knees on top of him and crowding into his space. Cas touched his cheeks, dragging Dean with him as he lowered himself to the pillow.</p><p>They kissed long and slow at first, still groggy in the morning light. Cas tasted like the coffee he’d been sipping, deep and robust. His palms moved down Dean’s back, and then under the hem of his shirt. His fingers danced along Dean’s spine.</p><p>Dean laid down fully on top of Cas, and he wished the comforter wasn’t between them. He pressed his hips into Cas as best he could. Cas grunted into his mouth, sending a puff of hot air down Dean’s throat. His kisses became a little more urgent, a little messier. </p><p>Dean remembered the way it used to be with them.</p><p>Sometimes it was slow, filled with sighing breaths of bliss and gentle touches, their bodies rocking into each other like waves lapping on the shore.</p><p>Sometimes it was fast, rough and desperate, the two of them grabbing fistfuls of each other’s skin, practically clinging to each other.</p><p>Sometimes it was like they were kids—blushing and fumbling, laughing while they rolled together.</p><p>Sometimes, it started one way and ended up being another.</p><p>Dean really didn’t know what he preferred the most. They were good for different reasons—and for one reason. Because it was Cas.</p><p>The kiss broke for a moment as they both caught their breath. Their faces hovered close, and Dean could still relish in the scent lifting off Cas’ skin. He closed his eyes, letting any good memory he could muster come to the surface, latching onto the scent. It drowned out all the bad. He brushed his nose against the hollow of Cas’ cheek.</p><p>After a few long seconds, Dean pulled away and sat back on his ankles. He lifted up the covers over Cas and crawled under them, letting them fall on his shoulder blades while he situated himself on Cas again. Cas propped his knees up on either side of Dean’s hips, boxing him in. There was the press of his erection through his boxers. It made Dean’s mouth go dry.</p><p>He dipped back down, lining Cas’ jaw with kisses, feeling the burn of Cas’ stubble against his lips. He sucked on Cas’ neck, nibbled on his ear. Cas was panting. Choppy breaths were mixed with soft, needy growls. Dean pressed his hips into Cas’, dragging their bodies together slowly. He rolled back, repeating the motion again and again. Cas’ thighs tightened around him. He circled into Dean.</p><p>When Cas said Dean’s name, his voice was scratched raw. It made Dean’s dick pulse, made his chest feel too small.</p><p>He pulled away fractionally to yank his shirt over his head. The comforter had slipped down to the small of his back, and a chill touched his heated skin. Cas propped himself on one elbow to get out of his shirt, too; then they were kissing again. Cas’ hand rounded Dean’s back, latching over the curve of his shoulders. His other came to Dean’s throat, touch feather-light, except for his thumb. He applied pressure to Dean’s pulse point; at the same time, he rolled his body a little faster into Dean.</p><p>It was such a simple thing—and Dean almost blacked out with pleasure.</p><p>He must have made a sound, because Cas was grinning into their kisses now. Dean broke away, gasping in a breath. “We’re gonna have sex every day for the rest of ever,” he laughed, words coming out strained.</p><p>Cas gave a breathy chuckle. “I love you, too, Dean.”</p><p>“I love you so fucking much,” Dean told him, moving back in for a kiss—and it was the first time he’d ever said it. Except, no it wasn’t. He’d said it before. He didn’t know how many times. He’d said it to <em>Cas</em>.</p><p>“Okay—okay,” Dean forced himself to say. He swallowed, going for some self-control. He picked himself halfway off of Cas, and Cas’ brow lined. It was a funny contrast to sex-wild hair and bruised lips. “I’m gonna teach you about something.” Dean reached for his desk at the awkward angle and ripped open his drawer. He searched blindly inside, trying to ignore the way Cas was staring up at him, and the way Cas was dragging his knuckles up and down Dean’s spine to make him shiver. His hand eventually connected with his bottle of KY.</p><p>He pulled it out, showing it to Cas. “’Kay, this is lube,” he explained. “It’s like… like salve.” He honestly didn’t know where that information had come from. He’d just known it. “You remember how we used that, right?”</p><p>“How could I forget?” Cas really was a smug bastard. Dean’s skin was on fire.</p><p>“Yeah,” he said, throat clicking as he swallowed. “Well, same principle. It’s just made for sex.” He cocked a sideway smirk, being smug right back. “Kinda like me.”</p><p>“Of course,” Cas said, humoring him. And then there was a dizzying rush, and the next thing Dean knew, he was on his back. Cas was on top of him, bracing himself by his arms, one brow raised while he looked down at Dean. Dean had to bite on his lower lip to stop a giddy smile coming to his face.</p><p>“So, if I was going to fuck you,” Cas said, picking up the bottle from Dean’s hand, “this is what I’d use?”</p><p>“Well, that depends,” Dean said. “Are you gonna fuck me?”</p><p>“Maybe.”</p><p>“Don’t keep me in suspense.”</p><p>Cas stared down his nose at Dean for a long time, the slightest of smiles on his lips, like he was considering his next move. Dean’s heart was slamming. Eventually, Cas leaned in close, and Dean held his breath, expecting to get kissed. Cas only hovered, their lips brushing. He said, “Take off your underwear, Dean.”</p><p>Dean didn’t need to be told twice.</p><p>They both got out of their boxers, the comforter and sheets now kicked to the end of the bed. Cas laid back down, allowing for Dean to straddle his hips. His dick brushed up against Dean’s ass, and Dean swallowed down a groan. Cas slicked up his fingers, warming the gel.</p><p>He reached behind Dean, opening him up. Dean closed his eyes, his fingers digging into Cas’ ribs. He tried to stop his body from tensing, but it was hard to do. It had been a long time since anyone fucked him and not the other way around. He shuddered when Cas pushed a finger inside halfway.</p><p>“Dean,” Cas whispered, checking on him.</p><p>Dean nodded, his throat closing up and stomach jumping. He reminded himself to breathe. “I’m good.”</p><p>Cas must have known he wasn’t telling the whole truth. He went slowly, pulling out every now and again to apply more lube. And it felt awesome. Eventually, Dean doubled over, unable to hold himself up anymore. His body was shaking with strain and want.</p><p>“<em>Cas</em>,” he whined—<em>demanded</em>, not whined, definitely not—after a while. He could feel his blood in his face, which was actually insane because he didn’t know how any was left over from his dick.</p><p>“Yes, Dean,” Cas told him, but he was slow about it. He dragged out his fingers unhurriedly, and Dean moaned against his chest in a mixture of frustration and pleasure.</p><p>His mind blurry, he sat back up again, trying to blink himself right. To the untrained eye, Cas looked pretty in control, but his lips were parted and his nostrils were flaring, and he was trying really hard to keep composure.</p><p>And Dean always really loved making Cas lose his composure.</p><p>He lifted himself up and sunk back down on Cas. His breath punched out of him, just as a loud, lingering moan came out of Cas, and Dean was really happy Sam wasn’t home but he also didn’t really care.</p><p>They worked their bodies, Cas thrusting up into him, Dean circling his hips back onto him. The pads of Cas’ fingers were digging into Dean’s thighs, and Dean was gripping his wrists for something to hold on to.</p><p>He focused on the blue of Cas’ eyes boring back into him, the way Cas’ forehead was lined, the way he pulled in tripping breaths through his teeth. Dean laughed. He reached forward, dragging the pad of his thumb between Cas’ eyes to smooth out the lines there. Cas grabbed his hand, kissed the inside of his wrist.</p><p>Slowly, Dean watched the cracks in Cas’ poise start to form and splinter out. His eyelashes fluttered. His tongue darted out to wet his lips. Aborted growls were rolling like thunder out of him.</p><p>Cas bucked up into him, and Dean’s vision went white. “<em>Fuck</em>—Cas.” Cas must have gotten the message. He hit again every few thrusts. Dean could feel his orgasm coming on. Cas’ hand lifted off his thigh, turning over, and Dean slid their palms together, clasping their hands. With his free hand, Dean pulled at his dick, his mind blanking of everything except for the building pressure inside him.</p><p>He came quickly after that, enough that his senses dulled and there was a ringing in his ears for a second as he came back down to earth. He was still riding the aftershocks when Cas spilled out, too.</p><p>After, Dean stayed still, his posture curling downward while he caught his breath. He was damp and flustered all over, and he tried not to grimace at the stickiness on his stomach and ass. Beneath him, Cas was looking at up him, his chest rising and falling in audible breaths, his cheeks and chest blushing pink, his eyes clear blue.</p><p>Dean grunted as he lifted himself off of Cas and flopped down on the mattress next to him. A chill ran through him without the shared body heat, but Cas must have seen it because he reached for the blankets at the end of the bed and pulled them up, tucking both of them back in. He rolled onto his side and pressed himself against Dean, his head on Dean’s shoulder. Dean stared up at the ceiling, watching the sun coming through the curtain. Cas was idly tracing some intricate design on the skin over Dean’s heart with his fingertip.</p><p>He didn’t know how long they stayed like that, but the sweat and come was drying on his skin, and his stomach was feeling a little hollow. He said, “So. About breakfast?” Cas grunted sleepily into his shoulder, and Dean strained to look down at him at the angle. Cas’ eyes were closed, and he looked about a second from dropping off again.</p><p>Dean snorted. “Or you could keep sleeping.”</p><p>Cas hummed in the negative. “No,” he sighed, eyes still closed. “It’s too dark.”</p><p>Dean pursed his lips, having no idea what the hell that meant. It was broad daylight. “Huh?”</p><p>Cas gave another heavy breath through his nose, sounding a little more awake now, but he didn’t say anything.</p><p>Dean shifted, trying to get a better look at him. His gut was telling him something was wrong, and he couldn’t shake it. “Cas?”</p><p>“It’s nothing,” Cas tried forcefully. He picked his head up, clearly forcing himself to meet Dean’s gaze. It didn’t last long. His eyes flickered downward. “I wasn’t awake,” he said slowly, “for all of it. At least… I don’t think so. I don’t know how much I missed.”</p><p>Dean shook his head, not understanding. “Missed what? What are you talking about?”</p><p>“Time,” Cas said, frustrated. “When I was dead. There would be moments when—I don’t know—I wasn’t there. It would be daylight one second and, the next, it would be night.” Dean still wasn’t following. Not exactly. Something like ice was touching his skin, like his body was reacting before his mind could catch up.</p><p>“I’d see summer in full bloom outside the window. Then, I’d blink, and there’d be snow. Once—” Cas gave a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a scoff. A bitter smile was on his face. “Once, I found that ivy had crept inside the music room and overtook half the wall. I looked away for a moment, and it had become withered and rotted.”</p><p>Dean could barely swallow down the rock that formed in his throat. He felt his eyes getting glossy, but he couldn’t blink, no matter how hard he tried.</p><p>“It could have been days or—or years. I’m not sure,” Cas told him. “And I don’t know where I went when it happened, just that I was gone. I don’t remember anything. Just… nothing, Dean. When I try to, all I see is… nothing.”</p><p>Dean couldn’t really comprehend it. He would have thought haunting a house for 150 years, being awake for every second, would have made him go crazy. But this? Not knowing why it happened, or when it would happen next, or what you’d get on the other side of it? It sounded worse. It sounded <em>horrible</em>.</p><p>“Cas, I’m sorry,” he heard himself say, voice cracked. He didn’t even know why he’d said it. Guilt was pooling in his gut, and he couldn’t help but think this was somehow all his fault. Hell, maybe it was. Cas wouldn’t have died like that if it wasn’t for him.</p><p>Cas shook his head, sorrow in his eyes. “Dean, don’t be,” he said. “I don’t see it anymore.”</p><p>Dean tried to steady himself, because he shouldn’t have been the one having a breakdown right now. “You don’t? You sure?”</p><p>Cas nodded. He flattened his palm in the center of Dean’s chest. He said, “I see you.”</p><p>Dean pulled in a breath, and he couldn’t decide if the tightness in his chest had gotten better or worse. But a small smile was tugging at his lips. “I love you, Mr. Novak,” he said. He didn’t know why, but he knew it was right.</p><p>Cas’ gaze snapped up to him at once, surprised at first before melting into bliss. “And I love you, Mr. Wesson.”</p><p>Dean slipped his hand under Cas’ jaw and pushed forward to kiss him slowly. Cas kissed back, and Dean let himself get lost in it.</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p> </p><p>Dean and Sam made plans to meet at the library toward the end of the day. Sam’s classes let out three hours before Dean’s only class of the day, due only to the fact that Sam preferred to start at the ass crack of dawn and Dean was a normal person. But it gave him more time to get a jump start into researching Dean’s past life. Sam’s idea.</p><p>Because, now that he was convinced, he needed to know everything. Not that Dean was complaining; he had a whole laundry list of questions that needed answering. Still, he felt funny not telling Cas about the research—especially since Cas was the best primary source of information they had. But not about the question at the top of Dean’s list: <em>Why is this happening to us?</em></p><p>He didn’t want Cas to think Dean was second-guessing their relationship, or that Dean wasn’t thrilled they’d found each other. His mind kept circling back to what Cas had said a few days ago, about Dean leaving him. Dean wasn’t even sure how to address that, so he kept avoiding all thoughts of it, which was almost impossible. All he could really do was try to prove to Cas that he was wrong, that of course Dean wanted him.</p><p>He found Sam in the history section of the library. The bright overhead fluorescents were washing over the tables and bookshelves, painting the carpeted floor in a sickly green and reflecting in starbursts on the wall of windows. It was barely 5 PM and the world outside the glass was inky dark, the sky above thick with clouds.</p><p>Sam was sitting with his nose in a book. Three other tomes were stacked next to his elbow, and Dean saw the top one was about the local history of Amherst. A scattered, disorganized pile of printed papers was all around him, his opened notebook poking out from beneath the pages. He glanced up, eyes a little out of focus, when Dean approached.</p><p>“Hey,” Dean said, pulling out the chair across from his brother and sitting down. Sam gave a kind of grunt in response. “Find anything?”</p><p>“Lots, actually,” Sam said, and that was a surprise. Dean really hadn’t expected Sam to make any headway. He really should have known better. Put Sam in front of a computer, and the kid could do anything. He was practically coding before the training wheels came off his bike.</p><p>“Found some stuff about Charles Novak and the history of the manor. Apparently, it had been in Cas’ family for a couple generations. They even have their own cemetery on the grounds.”</p><p>Dean grimaced, and there was a flash of memory then: his own hands tugging weeds out from under the base of a headstone. He shook it away. “You think that’s where Cas is buried?”</p><p>Sam shrugged. “Maybe? Sounds like a safe bet.”</p><p>Dean nodded, not really wanting to think about that. Cas was alive now. That was all that mattered. “Okay, what about me? Anything?”</p><p>Sam nodded, something in his posture suggesting <em>professionalism</em> and <em>objectiveness</em>, and Dean wished he could possess those qualities at the moment. “Yeah, uh—” Sam picked through the printed pages until he found what he was looking for. It was rows of names and dates, looking like it was photocopied from a ledger of some kind. About halfway down, a few lines were highlighted, the yellow ink of the highlighter blending into the toner.</p><p>“Sergeant Dean Wesson,” Sam said, turning the paper over to face Dean. Dean picked it up, his eyes scanning the lines. “Born January 24<sup>th</sup>, 1842, in Lawrence, Kansas.” He even had the same birthday and hometown. Dean didn’t know why that raised bumps on his skin. “And I looked into the 13<sup>th</sup> Infantry Regiment, looking for what battles they took part in and cross-referencing them with your name.” Sam picked up his notebook; the page it was open to smudged with notes, some highlighted, some crossed out. “Dean, you were in Gettysburg.”</p><p>Dean’s eyes snapped up. He thought about his nightmare. Bodies, blood, cavalry men, the boom of cannons ringing in his ears. Maybe that was something he was better off not remembering in full.</p><p>Trying to change the subject to something—anything—else, Dean let the page in his hand flutter back down to the table. He licked his lips, asked, “What about you?”</p><p>Sam’s expression became a little cagey at that, and Dean could <em>really</em> empathize. It’d been a little over twelve hours since Sam realized he was on his second life. That wasn’t exactly knowledge that sat easy on the mind. “Yeah.” Sam flicked through the pages again, pulling out a few and fanning them out in front of Dean. The first was much like the one with Dean’s name on it. Then there was what looked like a death certificate. The other appeared to be from some kind of academic journal.</p><p>“Basic rundown?” Sam said, forcing out a shallow laugh. “Samuel Wesson, born May 2<sup>nd</sup>, 1846 in Lawrence. Served in the 28<sup>th</sup> Mass Regiment from 1864 to 65. Died in 1923 in Paolo Alto, California.”</p><p>Dean kicked his feet up on the chair next to him and sunk lower with a groan. He hated this. Trying to take his mind off just how much he hated it, he snatched up the printing of the journal. It was an essay on criminal justice by Samuel Wesson, esquire.</p><p>“Jeez, looks like you were a law monkey in two lifetimes, Sammy. Way to go.” He tossed the page, watching it spin through the air and land back onto the others.</p><p>Sam didn’t even half-ass a laugh at that. Something was bothering him—something more than everything <em>else</em> that was bothering him. “What?” Dean asked.</p><p>Sam shrugged gently, eyes downcast. “Nothing. Just thinking… I didn’t find a marriage certificate or anything.”</p><p>Dean pulled a frown, not understanding. “So? Maybe you didn’t get married. You were too busy chasing tail on the Cali beaches.”</p><p>At least that got Sam to snort, but then his face sobered again. His eyes moved back and forth in thought. “Maybe. But I keep thinking—you know, what if I had kids?” He opened up his palms on top of the table in a gesture. “Man, what I have a great-great-whatever-grandkid out there somewhere?”</p><p>Dean hadn’t even thought of that. He popped his brows in the realization. Maybe Sam was right. Hell, maybe Dean Wesson had a few descendants of his own. “Should we… try to find them?” His stomach soured just thinking about it. What the hell good would that do except pull more unsuspecting people into this shitshow?</p><p>“Is it weird that I kinda want to?” Sam asked.</p><p>“<em>Right</em>?”</p><p>Dean didn’t know if he wanted to go have a beer with his great-grandkid but maybe they had a Facebook or something? If they existed. Dean wasn’t sure. Then a thought struck him: “You don’t think <em>we’re</em> the grandkids, right?”</p><p>Sam’s eyes widened like he hadn’t even thought of that possibility.</p><p>Equal parts fascination and horror ran through Dean. “Hell, for all I know, I’m my own great-great-grandpa.”</p><p>Falling back heavily in his chair, Sam blew out his cheeks. “This is too weird.”</p><p>Dean could almost laugh. He rubbed hard at his eye with his pointer finger until tendrils of black swirled around in his vision. He glanced back at Sam, wondering, “And you don’t remember anything?”</p><p>Sam shook his head.</p><p>“Yeah, well, maybe you’re better off,” Dean grumbled down at his lap.</p><p>Whether Sam agreed or not, he didn’t say. But he did ask, “What do <em>you</em> remember?” He was looking at Dean with squinted eyes, like he was inspecting him. Dean didn’t want to be some weird science experiment, but he guessed it was a little late for that.</p><p>“Some stuff,” he admitted. “I dunno. A lot of times, I don’t know if I’m remembering something from <em>now</em> or if it’s one of… one of <em>his</em> memories. I can’t tell which is which half the time. I’ll remember something about Mom, thinking it’s from back then, except I’m sitting in front of <em>Spongebob</em> on the TV. It’s annoying.”</p><p>He rubbed his hands down his face, if only to avoid the sympathetic puppy eyes Sam was shooting his way. He tried to focus, to think hard. “I remember Dad. I remember he died in the Civil War.”</p><p>Sam nodded, his mouth going taught. “Yeah, I found that out.”</p><p>“Okay,” Dean said. He gestured a hand toward Sam. “I <em>think</em> I remember you. I have this image of you in old timey clothes, but I can’t tell if it’s from then or if it’s you in costume in that lame school play you were in in junior high.”</p><p>He closed his eyes, trying to conjure up more images, more memories. All he ever saw were blue eyes.</p><p>“I mostly remember Cas,” he admitted, letting his eyes slip open. Still, he could see Cas’ face as plain as day. Sam’s expression had softened somewhat. Dean added, “And there were other people, too—people who worked in the manor. Friends. But… it’s mostly Cas.”</p><p>Sam nodded, seeming to stow that information away. He asked, “And after Cas?”</p><p>Dean’s throat clicked when he swallowed. He’d hoped Sam wouldn’t ask that, because there was one big problem, one Dean couldn’t sus out: “Nothing.” He shook his head. “I don’t remember a damn thing. Last memory I have is… finding Cas’ body.”</p><p>Sam didn’t say anything to that. Dean was glad. He didn’t glance up at his brother, but he could feel Sam’s eyes on him. He asked the same question that came to his head every time he thought about why he couldn’t remember anything after Cas: “Do you think I died then, too?”</p><p>“Died?” Sam echoed. “Of what, Dean? A broken heart?”</p><p>“No, come on, Sam!” Dean said, a knee jerk reaction. He’d thought maybe of suicide or—he didn’t know—someone barged in, thought he’d killed Cas, and put a bullet between his eyes. But a broken heart? That sounded stupid.</p><p>Except, maybe finding Cas dead brought on a stress-induced heart attack.</p><p>Dean furrowed his brow, considering it. “Is that really a thing?” he asked, trying to sound casual about it. His voice went up an octave without him wanting it to.</p><p>Sam gave another scoffing sound, and Dean decided to take that as a <em>no</em>.</p><p>But it did beg the question: how did he die? Was it old age, a barfight, high cholesterol? He nodded to the scattered pages between them. “When did he—<em>did I</em>—die, anyway?”</p><p>Sam gave an unsure sound before saying, “I dunno. I couldn’t find a date. But you <em>were</em> buried.”</p><p>That was enough to give him chills again. Morbidly, he asked, “Where?”</p><p>Sam looked at his notebook again as a reference, “In Boston.”</p><p>As Dean mulled that over, a morose curiosity pulled at him. He wanted to see his grave, and he didn’t ever want to see it. But he felt like he’d never be able to get it out of his head until he went. He tried to convince himself it was for different reasons: because he needed to know what year he died, because maybe it would help him remember his life after Cas, if there was one. And maybe, just maybe, that would shine a light on why he’d been given another chance, and why Cas haunted the manor for so long, and why they’d pulled Sam into all this.</p><p>But he just had to <em>see it</em> for himself.</p><p>“Okay,” he said, plopping his feet back on the floor and sitting upright. “Who’s up for a field trip?”</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p> </p><p>The drive into Boston took two and a half hours. It would have been shorter, but the Mass Pike was the same traffic-hellscape it always had been. Dean guessed that was his own fault for not waiting until the weekend rolled around to head into the city. As they drew closer, Dean kept glancing in the rearview mirror to watch Cas gawk at the busy highways and the tall buildings glinting in the sunlight. He couldn’t believe he was considering this, but he actually wanted to take Cas sightseeing. Maybe they’d do one of those stupid Duck tours on the Charles. They could get a bite to eat at the food court in Faneuil Hall, see the Commons, go to a Sox game. He knew Cas would love to see a concert at the Symphony. Dean had never been there, but maybe they could make a night of it one of these days.</p><p>A pasta dinner in the North End. A trip to the MFA or the Museum of Science—or even the aquarium. A show. Rent a fancy hotel room for the night that overlooked the city lights and have hardcore sex. Yeah, he figured he could splurge on that just once if he saved up.</p><p>For now, he pointed the Impala to the northern side of town, where Sam’s phone told them to go.</p><p>The cemetery was a small plot of grass and trees, fenced in from the surroundings office and government buildings. A chapel stood to the side of it. And Dean couldn’t help but think it seemed a little out of place among the bustle of modern city life, especially since all the headstones and memorials looked so <em>old</em>. He doubted anyone had been buried there in the last seventy years or more. Some of the tombstones were in better shape than others, he noticed as he threaded through them, and the ones in the best shape were those “notable” people listed on the info plaque at the front gate that gave the history of the burial ground.</p><p>Dean wasn’t really sure why any of those people were so “notable.” He was also pretty sure none of them had been reincarnated, so who was the real winner here?</p><p>Every now and again, he glanced away from the headstones to look at Sam or Cas. They were flanked out in different parts of the cemetery, both of them with their heads down, reading the engravings on the stones. No one else was walking along the walkways. Everyone on the sidewalks outside the fence kept their eyes forward, wrapped up in their cell phones or rushing back to the office after their lunch break. None of the graves had any flowers on them anymore. From the intersection, a car’s horn beeped furiously.</p><p>Dean walked along the outer wall of the cemetery. It was an old thing made of crumbling, ancient stone. Cracks ran through them, creating a variety of jagged shapes—so Dean almost missed it. He’d walked right by it before pausing and stepping backward to take a closer look. Something was engraved into one of the stones. It was a weird shape—almost like a star. Actually, it kind of looked like two <em>Star Trek</em> symbols pointed in opposite directions and overlapping. It was enclosed in a circle. Dean tilted his head at it, a strange needling in his head telling him he’d seen that symbol somewhere before.</p><p>“Hey, guys! I found it,” Sam called suddenly.</p><p>Dean instantly turned around. He went cold, and that didn’t have much to do with the biting chill in the air or the changing leaves falling from the trees. Part of him had still sort of been denying this whole thing was real, that they wouldn’t actually find a Dean Wesson buried there.</p><p>He cast one last look at the symbol before shaking all thought of it away. Shoving his numbing fingers into his jacket pockets, he walked over to where Sam was standing toward the back wall of the chapel. Cas drifted over, too, meeting him there.</p><p>The gravestone wasn’t one that had been meticulously taken care of. The rounded top of it was weather-beaten and crumbling. A fault splintered down the middle. Moss was crawling up the sides and dirt was making the flint blotchy. The words carved into the stone had faded with time, and Dean had to squint a little bit to see the name.</p><p>But there it was.</p><p>
  <em>Sgt. Dean Wesson<br/>
</em>
  <em>13<sup>th</sup> Massachusetts Infantry Regiment<br/>
</em>
  <em>Jan. 1842 –</em>
</p><p>The bottom part of the stone was obscured by dirt and fallen leaves.</p><p>“We should,” Cas said, “clear it away.” He stepped forward, and Dean jolted in sudden annoyance.</p><p>“Hey, watch out!” he shouted, gesturing down to where Cas’ boots were. “Come on, dude, you’re walking on <em>me</em>!” Dean had kind of expected to feel something—in his bones or whatever. That chill people get that prompts them to say <em>I feel like someone’s walking over my grave</em>. But there was nothing.</p><p>Cas gave one of his atmosphere-shifting eyerolls. “Dean, you’ve been dead for at least a century. I’m walking on dirt.” He kept moving, and crouched down in front of the headstone. Dean gaped, not really knowing what to say to that. He looked at Sam for back up, but all Sam did was try to bite back an amused smirk.</p><p>“No respect,” Dean grumbled, but he dropped it.</p><p>Cas had pushed away the leaves and dug out some of the dirt. Currently, he was using his palm to brush off whatever excess soil clung to the stone. He leaned back, silent for a moment. Dean blinked. He tried to see what was there, but Cas’ shoulders were blocking it.</p><p>“But that’s…” Cas said, voice low. He let it trail away.</p><p>Dean’s stomach did a flip. The smile was off Sam’s face. They both stepped forward, and Cas got back to his feet. All three of them looked down at the engraving.</p><p>
  <em>Jan. 1842 –<br/>
</em>
  <em>Dec. 1868</em>
</p><p>“That’s a month after I died,” Cas said, turning his head to look at Dean.</p><p>Dean could feel Sam’s eyes on him, too, but he kept staring forward.</p><p>And so much for living a long life. Dean Wesson had been 26 when he died. That’s why Dean couldn’t remember anything after his time with Cas. There <em>was</em> nothing.</p><p>Just one month.</p><p>What the hell had happened to him in that one month?</p><p>“Excuse me, boys?”</p><p>Dean nearly jumped out of his skin. All three of them whipped around, finding a man dressed all in black, from his shoes to the cardigan he wore to protect himself from the chill. The only thing that wasn’t black was the white clerical collar around his neck. The pastor seemed a little startled by their response, and he appeared apologetic for a moment before he said, “I’ll have to ask you to not touch the grave markers. As you can see, they’re old.”</p><p>Dean kind of wanted to laugh at that, but every nerve ending in his body was frazzled.</p><p>Luckily, Sam was a little quicker. “Right. Sorry, pastor.”</p><p>The pastor nodded, accepting it. “Is there anything I can help you with?” He sounded a little unsure, his eyes quickly flickering to the other side of the burial ground, where the more “notable” people were buried. Dean doubted many tour groups bothered looking at the graves this deep into the cemetery.</p><p>“Yeah, actually,” Sam said, and Dean didn’t know where the hell he was going with that. He shot Sam a look, silently telling him to get rid of the priest so they could leave. But Sam glanced back, asking Dean to trust him, before refocusing on the pastor.</p><p>“We’re from UMass Amherst. And we’re, uh… working on a paper,” he lied, “about Civil War vets.”</p><p>The pastor’s expression rearranged into mild interest.</p><p>And Dean thought he knew what Sam was doing. If Dean was buried here, there could be some way to find out just what had killed him. “Yeah,” he added, “we found out there was a guy who fought in Gettysburg buried here.” Was he bragging? He didn’t care. He was in Gettysburg and he survived; he deserved to brag.</p><p>“That’s some very in-depth research,” the pastor said.</p><p>Sam chuckled, making it sound real. “Yeah, well, we like to be thorough,” he said. And then, pointing at the grave, “Hey, you wouldn’t happen to know how he died, would you?”</p><p>The pastor shook his head. “No. That was a little before my time,” he joked.</p><p>Dean tried not to show his disappointment.</p><p>“Right, right, of course,” Sam said, the brightness that had been in his tone slightly dimmer.</p><p>“But,” the pastor said, recapturing Dean’s interest, “the chapel has always kept records of those married or laid to rest here. I’m not sure you’ll find exactly what you’re looking for, but if there’s anything here, it could point you in the right direction.”</p><p>Sam lit up a little at the prospect of more research. “Yeah, sounds good. Do you think we could take a look?”</p><p>The pastor turned toward the chapel, gesturing them over his shoulder. “Follow me.”</p><p>And Dean honestly didn’t know if he wanted to. He <em>had</em> to know, but at the same time, he wondered if he was better off not digging too deep. He glanced at his headstone.</p><p>It’d nag at him forever if he didn’t get answers.</p><p>“Awesome,” he breathed out, and followed the others inside.</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p> </p><p>The chapel’s records were tucked away into the dampish, dark corner of the building’s basement. Apparently, the newer records were all housed on the computer in the office, but when Dean hopefully asked if there was a chance that information went back to the mid-1800s, the pastor laughed at him. So, they had to do it the old-fashioned way.</p><p>They dragged out the soggy, laden cardboard boxes off the shelves and carded through the files at the old folding table in the middle of the room. Dean’s nose tickled with the dust floating through the air with drugged slowness, and he’d already sneezed at least ten times. The wet chill was seeping into his skin at that point. So far, he’d found a bunch of handwritten ledgers from the early 1900s that were more mildew than ink. Even if they did find something about Dean Wesson’s burial, it would probably be too waterlogged to read.</p><p>Dean pointedly ignored the strange relief that thought brought him. Because there was something snapping at his brain, telling him he was better off leaving well enough alone.</p><p>He thought about when he was a little kid, half-asleep in his bed in the dead of night. With his eyes skewed tight and the hairs on the back of his neck standing on edge as some imaginary boogeyman hovered behind him. With the thought that, if he ignored it, pretended he was asleep, it would go away. With another thought telling him to open his eyes, to face the danger despite the cold fear sitting like lead in his gut. He’d opened his eyes every time, and every time all he found was empty darkness, no threat at all.</p><p>He wasn’t sure he’d be so lucky this time. More than ever, he wanted to keep his eyes closed. He just didn’t know why.</p><p>Dean kept shooting glances in Cas’ direction, wondering if he felt it, too. Cas’ nose was currently buried in a ledger, his brow pinched in focus. He never looked back up. Without him meaning to, Dean’s eyes lingered on him. It was impossible to think that, just days ago, Cas hadn’t even been there. With every passing hour, it was getting harder and harder to remember what life was like before Cas. It was getting tougher to differentiate himself from the bones in the overgrown plot outside the chapel.</p><p>“Guys,” Sam said urgently, knocking Dean out of his thoughts. Both he and Cas immediately turned their attention to Sam, who had sat up a little straighter. Dean could practically feel his heartbeat in his fingertips. The back of his neck bumped and went numb.</p><p>He didn’t want to open his eyes.</p><p>“Check it out,” Sam said. He slid the large, yellowing pages of the opened ledger across the table and turned the book around for Dean and Cas to look at it. Cas leaned in immediately. Dean hesitated, but shook himself, telling himself to stop being such a baby.</p><p>His gaze moved down to where Sam’s finger was pointing about halfway down the page. The ink was blotched and bleeding, dried watermarks pocking the parchment. The top of the page was lined with handwritten column headers: <em>Name, Death Date, Burial Plot, Burial Date, Witness Signature</em>.</p><p><em>Wesson, Dec. 1868, 019, Cremated, </em>followed by a smudged signature that looked exactly like Sam’s beneath the water damage.</p><p>“It doesn’t say how I died,” he said.</p><p>Sam let out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh. “That’s not what’s weird about it.”</p><p>Dean’s eyes flashed up to his brother, his stomach clenching. “Weird? What’s weird?” He hoped he didn’t sound too freaked out.</p><p>“You were cremated,” Cas said. His expression didn’t give anything away.</p><p>Dean shook his head. “So?”</p><p>“So,” Sam said, flipping the book back over to face himself. “Cremation was frowned upon in most Christian religions up until the twentieth century. The Catholics even had a ban on it until the ‘60s.”</p><p>Dean blinked at him, dumbfounded. “How the hell do you even know that?”</p><p>Sam shot him an annoyed look and ignored the question. “The point is—if you were cremated, you wouldn’t have been buried in a Christian cemetery. Hell, you wouldn’t have been buried at all.”</p><p>Dean met Cas’ eyes, hoping he could shed some light on what Sam was saying. Cas looked back, seeming equally perplexed. Dean turned back to Sam. “Then, what’s with the plot out back?”</p><p>Sam was smiling like this was some kind of game. “Exactly.” He must have noticed Dean’s frustration, because he went on, “Dean, you’re not buried here. But, look—that’s my signature.”</p><p>Dean still had no idea what was going on. He tried to puzzle together the pieces like a jigsaw, but they weren’t aligning. “What, so the grave's a fake and you lied about where I was buried?”</p><p>“Why would you do that?” Cas asked, tone more confused than accusatory.</p><p>Sam shrugged. “You tell me.”</p><p>Cas pressed his lips together, eyes falling back down to the ledger.</p><p>Dean felt a headache coming on. His face felt too hot, like all the blood was rushing there. “Then where the hell are my ashes?”</p><p>Sam looked down at the page like it could offer assistance. It didn’t. He said, smile gone, “No idea.”</p><p>Dean stared down hard at his name on the page. He wondered if it was too late to close his eyes again.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>1867</strong>
</p><p>The manor’s upkeep was even more difficult in the winter than it was in the fall, which Dean hadn’t thought possible. The labor of tilling soil, snipping dead leaves and withered flowers, trimming hedges, and fruitlessly picking up fallen leaves was traded for shoveling snow from all the walkways and the driveway, ensuring the fountains didn’t freeze and crack, cutting dripping icicles off every damn ledge, and cleaning the pine needles off the blanket of white beneath the evergreens. And all of it was done in bitingly cold temperatures, with the damp windchill from the Atlantic constantly making his hands go numb.</p><p>During the nights, he kept the potbelly stove in his apartment piled high with firewood. During the days, he found himself spending most of his breaks inside the manor. The cold was partly to blame for that. But most of the blame could probably be pinned on Cas.</p><p>Brooding, moody, hard-to-please Cas.</p><p>Nerdy, oblivious, sarcastic Cas.</p><p>Cas, with his blue eyes and strong chin and the vertical line that formed between his eyes when he was confused. And, if Dean was being honest, he found excuses to spend more time with him. But he did that with everyone! Like Benny or Jo or Garth.</p><p>Or maybe not <em>just</em> like that. Maybe a little more than that. He never expected to become friends with a rich heir; and it wasn’t like he knew very many of them, but Cas seemed different. Dean really wasn’t sure how to describe the way he felt around Cas. <em>Comfortable</em>, maybe. Whatever it was, it was nice, and it wasn’t something he was used to feeling around other people. Around Cas, Dean was the closest version of himself that he was when he was alone.</p><p>Well, almost. Because there were some things about Dean that Cas was just better off not knowing. Things Dean wished he could forget.</p><p>It was a day after New Year’s, and by some miracle there was still leftover roast in the kitchen. On his lunch break, Dean slapped a piece of the meat between two slices of the bread Benny had baked that morning before starting off down the hall in search of Cas. He heard the muffled sound of the piano almost immediately, and followed it toward the music room.</p><p>Once there, he cracked open the door, still holding his sandwich in one hand, and poked his head through. Cas was bent over the keys, elegant fingers rolling over them like water. The room was warm thanks to the fire popping in the hearth. Ice frosted the windows, letting in the sunlight in an ethereal blue glow.</p><p>Dean didn’t know what song Cas was playing, but it sounded nice. Slow and sad. Cas always picked the sad songs. He hung back in the door, munching on his lunch, and watching Cas play. Cas didn’t even seem to notice Dean was there—not until the song ended and Dean teased, “Bravo, Mozart.”</p><p>Cas didn’t seem very surprised by the intrusion. All he did was glance over, eyes searching Dean before he said, “Good afternoon, Mr. Wesson.”</p><p>Dean snorted, opening the door fully and stepping inside. “Afternoon, Mr. Novak,” he said, playing along. It was something they did from time to time, pretending to be formal. Dean wasn’t really sure how the joke had started, but it stuck. He sat on the bench next to Cas, facing in the opposite direction. Ignoring Cas’ frown, he leaned back against the piano’s keys.</p><p>“Knew you’d be in here,” he said, pointing what was left of his sandwich at Cas in an accusatory way before taking a big bite out of it. His fingers and cheeks were pretty warm now, after the painful pins and needles that came with thawing out the frigidness from them. “You need to shake up your schedule.”</p><p>Cas sighed. “Or perhaps I need better hiding places.”</p><p>Mouth full, Dean told him, “I already know all your spots. They’re not as good as you think they are.”</p><p>“Unless I’m not hiding from <em>you</em>.”</p><p>Dean swallowed, the lump of food getting caught in his throat. Sometimes, Cas just <em>said things</em> and Dean really wished he wouldn’t, because half the time Dean didn’t know what to make of them. And, as comfortable as Dean was around Cas, there were just sometimes when Cas made him <em>uncomfortable</em>—but not exactly in a bad way. Whatever chill left in Dean’s cheeks quickly went away.</p><p>He chanced a quick glance at him, finding Cas’ big blue eyes already waiting for him. Dean cleared his throat and shoved the rest of his sandwich into his mouth. Cas rolled his eyes and turned back to his sheet music.</p><p>“Speaking of,” Dean said thickly as he swallowed. “I was out in the woods this morning.” He spent most of the day hauling rocks to the stream’s edge to prevent any overflow during the rainy months.</p><p>“How is it coming?” Cas asked, sounding interested but only if you knew him.</p><p>“It’s coming,” Dean answered. He didn’t want to give too many details away. The spot was far from done, but it would be ready come springtime. Cas had offered to help a few times, and Dean had made up some excuse about it being suspicious for Cas to disappear into the woods for hours and come back covered in dirt. But, really, Dean wanted to do it by himself. For Cas.</p><p>“Dean,” Cas said, voice overlapping with the burst of piano notes. “If you’re going to continuously bring it up without offering any details, I’m going to start ignoring you.”</p><p>Dean snorted, but he still wasn’t about to give Cas what he wanted. The impatient bastard. Instead, he turned around on the bench to face the piano and stretched out his fingers with a dramatic flair. “Alright, what are we playing?”</p><p>Cas tilted his chin up in thought, and he was probably trying to punish Dean, because when he looked back down, he decided, “Well, you called me Mozart, so we’ll have to play the <em>Magic Flute</em>.”</p><p>Dean almost yelled at him, because it was like Cas <em>wanted</em> him to make a fool out of himself. Which he probably did—but Dean wasn’t one to back down from a challenge. “Yeah, alright, you sadistic son of a bitch,” he muttered, looking down at the keys and trying to remember where to put his fingers. They’d only started these lessons a few weeks ago. Dean didn’t exactly have his sea legs yet.</p><p>He really didn’t know why he subjected himself to the humiliation of learning. He guessed it was because his mom used to play him the piano every night before bed. And, anyway, Cas was a good teacher.</p><p>They started off together, Cas playing Primo and Dean playing Secondo. The beginning wasn’t so bad, starting slow and with pretty repetitive notes. But Dean’s stomach was preemptively in knots just thinking about what was coming up about a minute and a half into the piece.</p><p>It came too quickly—that rush of notes, the crescendo of sound. Cas’ part was tougher, but Dean couldn’t even take a second to admire how he played it, as if he didn’t even have to think. Dean was too busy struggling to keep up. He told his right hand to do something and accidentally did it with his left, too. He was pretty sure he hit about a hundred wrong keys by now.</p><p>But Cas kept going. The sides of their hands knocked and brushed every so often, and Cas playfully swatted Dean’s hand away once. He reached over Dean’s arm to hit a note, and Dean elbowed him.</p><p>Dean could feel his heart thundering against his ribs, his mind was on high alert, and he was practically on his feet now. He was breathless, like he’d run a race, and he didn’t realize he was grinning until his cheeks started to hurt. Laughter kept coming out of him in bursts. It was almost a game, keeping up with Cas. Cas must have thought so, too, because he’d take his eyes off the keys every now and again to look at Dean with twinkling eyes.</p><p>When Dean’s fingers started to hurt and he’d fumbled one too many times, he dropped back onto the bench and pulled his hands away. “Okay, enough!” he yelled, half-frustrated and half-too elated to care much that he wasn’t a maestro after only a few weeks.</p><p>Cas stopped playing, his fingers resting on the keys. When he turned to Dean, his lips were puckered in humor, and Dean swore that one day he’d get an honest to God smile out of the guy.</p><p>“You’re getting better,” Cas told him.</p><p>Dean looked down at his cracked hands, black dirt under his fingernails. “Yeah, right,” he said, because, according to Sam, he was the worst at taking compliments. And Cas always sounded so damn earnest. He brought his eyes back up to meet Cas’. “Fun, though.”</p><p>Cas seemed pretty happy about that. Gaze soft, the corners of his lips turned up just <em>fractionally</em> more. He nodded. Dean realized their thighs were pressed together under the piano. Cas was a warm, solid wall against him.</p><p>Behind Dean, someone cleared their throat—and Dean would know that sound anywhere. He withered, seeing Cas break eye contact to look at the man standing in the doorway. Dean turned to Zachariah.</p><p>“Mr. Wesson. I thought I might find you in here,” he said in his normal, faux-cheerful voice that made everything sound underhanded.</p><p>“Uh, yeah,” Dean said. “I was taking lunch.”</p><p>The phony grin was plastered on Zach’s face. “And you appear to be finished. Not a moment too soon, either! There’s some ice on the stairs outside the main entrance that needs to be broken up. Wouldn’t want anyone to slip, would we?”</p><p>Like Zach actually cared if someone fell on their ass. Dean tried not to roll his eyes. He wanted to tell Zach that he’d been working since before sunrise, but that had less to do with any passion for work and more due to the fact that he’d slept like shit the night before. Work was a good distraction from bad dreams; Cas was a better one.</p><p>“Okay. I’ll get right on that.”</p><p>“Presently, Mr. Wesson,” Zach said pointedly. Then, he turned away and walked back down the hall. Dean breathed marginally, because he half-expected Zach to stay there until he got up.</p><p>He turned back to Cas, dropping his shoulders in defeat. “Duty calls.”</p><p>Cas pressed his lips together, his smile completely gone now, and Dean told himself that definitely wasn’t disappointment on his face. He tried to distract himself by standing up and saying, “Looks like I gotta go steal a sack of salt from the kitchen.”</p><p>Furrowing his brow, Cas asked, “Salt?”</p><p>“Uh, yeah.” He probably shouldn’t have expected Cas to know just how many uses salt had outside of flavoring food. “Trick I learned in the war. You know… cold winters. Salt melts ice.”</p><p>Cas still seemed thoughtful. He looked off, toward the window. “I see.”</p><p>“Yeah, it’s fascinating,” Dean joked, regaining Cas’ attention. “Anyway. See you later?” He asked it like it was a question, like Dean couldn’t see Cas’ bedroom window from his apartment.</p><p>“Later,” Cas echoed, voice flat.</p><p>Dean started toward the door, and he could feel Cas’ eyes following him. And then, “Dean?” Dean stopped, looking around. Cas gave him another ghost of a smile and said, “Happy New Year.”</p><p>Right. Dean had almost forgotten.</p><p>“Happy New Year, Cas,” he said. Cas was already back to playing the piano by the time Dean reached the hallway. He wished he could stay and listen to him play.</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <strong>///</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>Cas had been gone for a few days. Something about Chuck dragging him to Providence to see a distant cousin or something. “Naomi,” Cas had told Dean with dramatic ruefulness, because apparently spending time with the woman was “torture.”</p><p>It wasn’t all bad. With both Novaks away, the staff got some time to rest. Everyone went about their chores leisurely, and the stick up Zach’s ass even seemed to dislodge just a little bit. But, as much as Dean was happy for the break, there wasn’t much to do. Benny didn’t come to the manor on those days, but at least Jo was around—although she didn’t seem all too interested in spending their time in the ways Dean would have liked to (or so she said).</p><p>And, he couldn’t believe he was saying this, but he guessed that was for the best. He liked Jo, and he probably shouldn’t make things awkward by ruining a perfectly good friendship.</p><p>Besides, his heart wouldn’t be in it. He didn’t know exactly why that was.</p><p>Maybe it was the dreams he’d been having recently. Every time he tried to sleep, he either heard the sound of canons, the crackling of flames, agonized shouts, the bang of a six-gun. He’d gone into town for some more herbs to replenish the poultice he kept on top of his dresser. He’d stolen salt from the manor’s scullery. Hell, he’d tried to do those stupid breathing exercises Sam taught him. None of it really worked.</p><p>Late January always put him in a “mood”, as Sam called it. Dean knew he should be grateful. After all, he made it another year and lived to tell the tale. He guessed that was something.</p><p>But that didn’t mean it was a tale he was <em>actually</em> going to tell anybody.</p><p>There was no one around to talk to, anyway.</p><p>Until that Thursday just before sunset, the front gates opened and the Novaks’ carriage arrived. Dean had been chiseling ice off one of the fountains in the front lawn, and he stopped to watch the carriage come to a halt at the main entrance. Cas got out, looking a little rumpled from travel, the bags under his eyes dark from exhaustion. Chuck exited after him, and the two of them went into the house while their luggage was unloaded.</p><p>Dean figured he probably wouldn’t get the chance to actually catch up with Cas that night, but that didn’t really matter. Dean went back to his task, mood lifted. That night, he ate dinner with the rest of the staff, and he didn’t mention to anyone what day it was.</p><p>The manor was quieting down for the night when Dean trudged across the frozen grass toward his apartment, hands shoved deep in his pockets. The night was deep and dark, clouds rolling across the sky in patches to tuck away the moon and blot out the stars. As Dean walked along the back of the house, the warm lights inside were one by one being snuffed out.</p><p>Except one.</p><p>An orange glow from the music room caught his eye.</p><p>Dean stopped in his tracks, squinting into the windows until the head of dark hair inside came into focus. Cas was curled up on the couch, every inch of him bathed in flickering gold from the fireplace. His head was tilted to the side, eyes on the book in his lap. Dean thought he’d gone to sleep.</p><p>He cast a look at the shadow of the carriage house in the distance and then decided, <em>fuck it</em>.</p><p>He cut across the lawn, placing himself at the window right behind the piano. The garden under his boots was dormant. Cas was still completely oblivious. His hair was untamed, a mess on top of his head and curling behind his ears. Every line of him was soft and sleepy.</p><p>Dean tapped his knuckles on the glass.</p><p>Cas didn’t exactly seem startled. His brow pinched, he brought his eyes up to look at the window through his lashes. Dean gave him a closed mouth smile and an innocent wave. Cas narrowed his eyes, the tilt of his head deepening. Muffled by the glass, Dean heard him say, “Dean?”</p><p>Dean bounced a little in the cold. He watched Cas kick his legs off the couch, put his book face down on the table, and cross the room. Cas pushed open the window, staring at Dean. “What are you doing?”</p><p>Dean shrugged exaggeratedly, pulling the corners of his mouth down. “Couldn’t sleep,” he lied—or he guessed it would be the truth if he actually gave it a shot.</p><p>Cas put his palms on the windowsill, leaning into them. Dean could feel the warmth of the inside on his cheeks. It radiated off Cas, his face a few inches away and just slightly higher up. Dean thought about standing on his toes to put them at the same height. He wasn’t used to having to look up at Cas.</p><p>“So, you decide to take a walk around the grounds in the freezing cold?” Cas asked him, one brow arching. It distracted Dean for a second too long before he realized he should answer.</p><p>“Guess so.” He sniffed in the cold. He really shouldn’t have been outside for too long. His fingers and toes were going numb. “Was thinking about heading off the property.” He grinned, conspiring. “Wanna come?”</p><p>Cas searched his face for a beat. He was tempted. Dean could see it in the twinkling of his eyes, in the way his jaw moved. He was more than tempted.</p><p>“C’mon, get your coat. I’ll meet you out front!” He stepped away. Cas closed the window and turned, walking quickly from the music room. Dean couldn’t stop smiling, a weird rush going through him as if they were doing something they shouldn’t. He left the window and walked around to the front of the house.</p><p>By the time Dean got to the front door, Cas was already there, coat on, an unlit lantern in his fist. They walked down the drive as quickly and quietly as they could, both of them checking over their shoulders every now and again to find nothing but ghosts chasing them. When they reached the front gate, it was locked for the night. Dean wrapped his hands around the biting iron, rattling it gently. He shoved the toe of his boot into a hole for purchase and hauled himself up. It was tricky at first, but it definitely wasn’t the first time he’d scaled a gate. He was over in no time, landing with a thud on the other side.</p><p>Cas stared at him from inside the iron bars. “Okay, you just gotta—” Dean began to coach him, but Cas huffed and rolled his eyes. He climbed over the fence a lot quicker than Dean had, the lantern clinking gently against the gate as he went.</p><p>When Cas landed in front of him, Dean shot him an impressed, surprised face. “You’ve done that before.”</p><p>Cas nodded sidelong, brows popping. Dean wondered just how many times he’d broken out.</p><p>They walked along the perimeter wall, hidden now from the house, and Dean figured they were safe to light the lantern without being seen. He reached into the breast pocket of his coat and took out his matches. Cas opened the lantern’s glass latch, and Dean struck a match with a sparkling hiss that lit up the blue shadows on their faces in yellow. The lantern’s wick flared before steadying.</p><p>Cas held it out to light their way. It illuminated the packed dirt road and the dark tree line on the other side. The grass crunched under their boots.</p><p>Dean took out his cigarette tin, a few pre-rolled papers inside, and shoved one between his teeth. He held out the tin to Cas, giving a hum in offering. Cas took one, and they paused walking momentarily so Dean could light them up. He lit his own first behind a cupped hand, dragging in a lungful of smoke. Cas leaned in, and Dean touched the same match to the cigarette’s tip, watching it smolder, eyes tracing the way Cas’ fingers pinched the paper, attention catching on his lips as he inhaled.</p><p>Dean shook out the match and tossed it away.</p><p>They continued on, and the smoke warmed Dean up from the inside. With every exhale, it mingled with Cas’ breaths.</p><p>“Where are we going?” Cas asked after a while, like it’d only just occurred to him. Like it didn’t really matter.</p><p>And Dean realized he had no idea what the answer was.</p><p>“Dunno,” he mumbled into another drag. “I’m open to suggestions.”</p><p>He could just make out the way Cas narrowed his eyes in the lowlight. “There’s not much except woods and farmland.” Dean already knew that. The closest farm was about a mile away from the edge of the manor’s perimeter wall. They were almost at the edge now. Dean didn’t know why that thrilled him as much as it did.</p><p>“Guess we’ll have to keep walking till we find something interesting, then,” he joked.</p><p>Mock-seriously, Cas agreed, “Of course.”</p><p>Silence fell between them then, everything quiet but the far away hooting of an owl. It was a nice, peaceful kind of quiet. Dean thought he should ask Cas how his trip was, but Cas probably didn’t want to talk about that. Instead, he asked, “Hey, what were you doing up so late, anyway?”</p><p>“Reading,” Cas answered levelly.</p><p>Dean rolled his eyes. “Yeah, no shit. But I thought you’d be kinda tired after a long trip like that.”</p><p>Cas exhaled smoke, lips forming an O-shape. Dean’s vision snagged on it before he told himself to look away and pay attention to what Cas was saying. “I was. Hence why I forced myself to stay awake.” It made no damn sense; but, then again, Cas was unfathomable. He sighed wearily. “The last few days were eventful. I wanted some time to myself. Alone. It seemed counterproductive to spend that time asleep.”</p><p>Dean could picture it: Cas being whisked off to dinners and plays and whatever the hell else, Chuck and cousin Naomi probably trying to set him up with the debutants of Providence, Cas hating every damn minute of it. As they cleared the edge of the perimeter wall, Dean heard himself chuckle. Cas was dipping his head to look at Dean, eyes curious, a tentative smile on his face like he was already in on the joke. And, hell, maybe he was.</p><p>“You ever consider you suck at being rich?” Dean filled him in.</p><p>The lines on Cas’ face evened out, and he stared off as he considered. Not without humor, he said, “You’re probably right.” And then, “It’s an awful thing to say. I should be happy. I’m fortunate. I could have just as easily been born in a slum.”</p><p>Dean tossed away the nub of his cigarette, already wanting another. “Slumming it’s not so bad. ‘Least… not when you got people around.” He thought of Sam and his father. He thought of his mom.</p><p>He wondered, if they were all still together, if they’d be happy. Maybe he’d be just as miserable as Cas. Dean guessed it didn’t matter what kind of life someone was forced into; all of it was shitty if it was forced. All of it was lonely.</p><p>Wouldn’t hurt to have money, though, that was for sure.</p><p>Cas hummed like he agreed. He flicked his cigarette to the road.</p><p>“Alright, then,” Dean said, trying to get out of his own head. “Then what <em>would</em> make the honorable Mr. Castiel Novak happy?”</p><p>Cas looked forward, clearly thinking. He said, “I don’t know. Perhaps we should keep walking a while.”</p><p>Dean could allow him that.</p><p>They kept a slow pace, just fast enough to keep themselves mostly warm. Eventually, they got to that farm. The pasture was surrounded by a squat stone wall, a barn and a quiet house in the distance. Cows were shadowy mounds on the field, laying huddled together for warmth. Every now and again, one of them would low softly.</p><p>Dean and Cas sat on the top of the wall, the stone bleeding cold into the seat of Dean’s pants. The lantern rested on Cas’ opposite side, still flickering obediently. After lighting up two more cigarettes, Dean kicked his heels against the wall, watching the cows’ bodies rise and fall in sleeping breaths. Above, the moon was coming out, the almost-full disk still mostly hidden. It peaked out from behind a cloud, casting a halo of silver across the sky.</p><p>“It’s my birthday today,” Dean said. He wasn’t really sure why he said it. He didn’t care if people knew, but for some reason, he wanted Cas to know.</p><p>Cas looked over at him, seeming surprised but pleased. The corners of his lips tilted upward. “Happy birthday, Dean.”</p><p>Dean nodded, not really knowing how to follow that up.</p><p>Cas hunched in on himself, looking forward again. “How old are you?”</p><p>Dean snorted. It was so like Cas to one-up him in the “surprise” factor. “Isn’t it kinda rude to ask that?”</p><p>“Only to a woman,” Cas informed him, and he was probably joking.</p><p>“Twenty-five,” Dean relented. He looked down at the cigarette between his fingers, its tip faintly red. He dug his heels into a space in the stone wall.</p><p>He should probably just leave it at that. There was really nothing else to say.</p><p>“I’ve been thinking about my mom a lot today.”</p><p>Cas looked back at him, studying his profile. Dean kept his eyes down. “She always made a big deal outta my birthday. Invited all the other kids over—adults, too. I don’t remember too much, but I think there were pony rides in the backyard one year.” He smiled sadly at the memory: “And… she wasn’t much of a cook, but, every year, she’d bake me a pie. Wouldn’t let any of the cooks do it. She wanted to do it herself.” He shrugged. “She was pretty good at it, too.” Not that he remembered it too well. He more remembered the warmth of it.</p><p>Cas was still looking at him silently, gaze like a touch to Dean’s skin.</p><p>Dean cleared his throat. “She died when I was four.” He let his eyes fall closed. Fire. Smoke. Bodies. Blood on his face. Gunpowder on his hand. He opened his eyes quickly. “Lots of things changed after that.”</p><p>After a while, Cas said, “I’m sorry, Dean.” It didn’t sound pitying.</p><p>But Dean was sorry, too. “It was just me, Sammy, and my dad for a while, then,” he said, pulling his shoulders back to sit a little straighter. “Then, you know—the war. And then it was just me and Sam.” Or maybe it’d been that way before, too. Dean thought it would have been different, after everything was over, after they moved to Boston and finally settled down. But John was only there physically. Dean didn’t know how to bring him back—and, more than ever, it was just him and Sam alone.</p><p>He let out a sardonic laugh. “And he’s still in Boston now, so guess it’s just me.”</p><p>He felt the moment Cas looked away. Cas whispered, “I understand.” And, yeah, Dean guessed he did. A dead mom, an absent father, a sibling a long way away. Hell, Cas probably understood better than anyone else.</p><p>Dean’s cigarette had burned down to the nub. He put it out on the stone, and realized Cas had finished his, too.</p><p>“Want another?”</p><p>Cas looked up, seeming to have not heard him. But then the words processed and he nodded.</p><p>Dean reached into his coat, opened his tin. There was only one left. His throat tightened, but he told himself not to be stupid. He picked it up and offered Cas his best smile. “Guess we’re sharing.”</p><p>Cas didn’t seem to have a problem with that.</p><p>Dean took the first puff before handing it off. Cas’ fingers were cold when they brushed Dean’s. Dean heard him inhale, then exhale pointedly, like he had something on his mind and was building the courage to say it.</p><p>“Dean.”</p><p>Dean turned to him quickly. Cas was already looking at him.</p><p>“You said…”</p><p>Dean’s gut dropped. What did he say? What guard did he let slip?</p><p>“You said your mother… wouldn’t let the <em>cooks</em> make you dessert on your birthday.”</p><p>Damn it.</p><p>Dean clamped his jaw and looked away, hoping it would make him invisible. But Cas was still looking at him. Cas could still see him.</p><p>“You read Latin,” Cas said. “Your brother is studying to become a lawyer. You shoot a gun better than anyone I’ve ever seen.”</p><p>Dean tried to swallow. It hurt to do.</p><p>Cas’ voice was a low rumble echoing through Dean’s chest. “You weren’t always a groundskeeper.” It wasn’t a question.</p><p>Dean stole the cigarette out of Cas’ hand and took a drag. It steadied him somewhat. As he blew out, he shook his head. “No.” And he didn’t want Cas to pity him, because he didn’t know the whole story, and Dean probably would have sucked at being rich, too. Only, Cas didn’t seem to pity him at all.</p><p>Out of the corner of his eyes, Dean saw Cas’ eyes narrow like he was trying to see through to the heart of him. And, it was crazy, but if Cas asked, Dean would tell him. He’d tell him everything.</p><p>“Will you trust me enough to tell me,” Cas said instead, “someday?”</p><p>The cigarette hung from Dean’s mouth. He didn’t mean look at Cas, but he couldn’t help himself. His eyes scanned Cas’ face—those big, sad blue eyes, the moonlight touching his skin, the clouds parting to reveal the wild winter stars to frame him in the backdrop—and he could feel himself crumbling.</p><p>He didn’t know how to tell Cas that it was better if he didn’t know. That he wouldn’t believe him, anyway. That he was safer in the dark. That, whatever friendship was between them, Dean would ruin it by speaking.</p><p>He didn’t know how to tell Cas that he thought he already trusted him. Because it felt like he’d known Cas his whole life, and there was no doubt in his mind, in that moment, that he’d spend the rest of his life trying to find him again. That he <em>knew</em> Cas. That he’d <em>always</em> known him—in some way. Just not from the past. That they’d been going backwards somehow. Dean knew him from the future. And, in the here and now, they’d only met briefly in the middle.</p><p>And then something hit him. Belatedly, Cas’ words—words from what felt like hours ago—processed in his mind.</p><p>
  <em>I wanted some time to myself. Alone.</em>
</p><p>But there he was with Dean. He’d chosen to come. Dean wondered how he didn’t realize that before.</p><p>Cas reached toward him and plucked the cigarette from between Dean’s lips. Dean blinked, suddenly slammed back down to earth. While Cas took a drag, Dean looked back down at his lap, not knowing whether or not to curse himself.</p><p>Then, as if none of it had happened, Cas asked, “If you could have any one thing for your birthday, what would it be?”</p><p>Dean didn’t know why that made him grin. He shook his head into a breath of laughter. “I dunno, Cas,” he said. Then, “Maybe we should just keep sittin’ here a while.”</p><p>Cas didn’t answer. He kept the cigarette between his mouth and leaned back onto his palms, splayed out on the stone on either side of him. Dean mirrored the position, accidentally setting his hand too close. Their skin grazed together.</p><p>Cas didn’t move. Neither did Dean. They kept their eyes forward.</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p> </p><p>February ushered in long nights and bleakly gray days. Every time Dean went outside, the tip of his nose went red and numb almost instantly. He had to head into town and actually buy himself a scarf and real winter gloves, since his work gloves really weren’t cutting it. But at least Cas had accompanied him into town that day. It’d actually been kind of fun. And Cas had even picked out the scarf for him at the market.</p><p>Dean’s face was currently buried in the olive-colored garment. He was in the garden between the two cherub fountains, both covered and tied neatly for the winter. The overnight’s freshly fallen snow crunched under his boots, and he’d actually remembered to double up on his socks so his toes wouldn’t freeze off.</p><p>He’d gone over there to shovel the bricks when he noticed the snowdrops were in bloom. The hardy white flowers hung their heads, drooping low down their vibrant stalks. Delicately, he worked on brushing the snow off their leaves, watching them pop up with the weight gone. He was so wrapped up in the task, he almost missed the movement in the corner of his eyes.</p><p>The balcony doors of Cas’ room were opening, and it took Dean a second to realize what was happening. Cas was bringing out a camera, seeming to struggle slightly with setting up the cumbersome object onto a tripod. Dean watched him for a second. Cas’ hair was stark black against all the white, and he must have been cold. He was just in a suit, no coat or hat, and his hands were bare as he worked. Mounds of snow still blanketed the balcony and railing, but Cas didn’t appear to feel any of it.</p><p>Dean didn’t realize he was staring until Cas straightened out behind the camera. He turned quickly, pretending to get back to work. His breath felt too humid trapped inside his scarf. He could practically feel the second Cas realized he was there, because the guy’s gaze might as well have had a magnetic pull. Dean acted like he couldn’t feel it. He busied himself with clearing off snow, but he was way too aware of Cas’ movements.</p><p>Cas was resituating the camera, pointing it in Dean’s direction. And Dean didn’t know why. It wasn’t like Cas was taking a picture of <em>him</em>. He was too far away, and his face was buried in a scarf. He honestly had no clue what Cas had taken a picture of when he finally put the cap back over the lens.</p><p>And Dean figured it was safe to look over now. Cas was staring off at the trees at the back of the property, seeming like he wasn’t aware Dean was even there anymore. Maybe he hadn’t been in the first place, and Dean was just being paranoid.</p><p>But then Cas’ eyes fell down to his, and even in the distance, Dean liked to think he could see the wintry blue of them.</p><p>Dean chuckled lowly for no reason. He left the garden behind, printing uneven footsteps in the snow as he trudged toward the balcony. A breeze hit, making snow trickle down off the tree outside Cas’ room. When he was beneath it, he looked up. Cas was already looking down at him, his breath fogging over his chapped lips. His cheeks were flushed with cold.</p><p>“Cas,” Dean said in a mock-reproving tone. “Did you just take a picture of me without me knowing?”</p><p>Cas’ expression remained stony. “I took a picture of the grounds, which you happened to be in,” he informed Dean. His voice fell heavily in the silent, cold air.</p><p>Dean raised a brow. “Why?”</p><p>“I like the way the snow is sitting on the trees.”</p><p>Dean looked over his shoulder at the forest. The bare branches were covered in white, and the sunlight was glinting off of them.</p><p>“It’s good to capture such things for posterity,” Cas was saying as Dean turned back.</p><p>“I didn’t even know you had a camera.”</p><p>“I don’t,” Cas said, and Dean glanced at the monolith of the camera just to make sure he wasn’t going crazy. It was still there. Cas corrected, “It was… I found it in the attic. I don’t really know how to use it.”</p><p>Dean snorted. Cas wanted to take a picture of some trees, but he’d probably get an over-exposed image of nothing. But Dean thought this was really about Cas’ need to procrastinate. “Uh-huh. And shouldn’t you be getting ready for that fancy dinner party tonight instead of playing with dirty pieces of junk?”</p><p>Cas rolled his eyes. And he was just being a big baby. Dean wasn’t trying to get the guy to marry anyone if he didn’t want to, but Cas needed a life outside of playing his piano and reading his books. It might even make him happy.</p><p>Dean wanted him to be happy.</p><p>“C’mon!” Dean goaded, eyeing the suit jacket Cas had on. “You’re not gonna wear <em>that</em>, are you?”</p><p>“I know how to dress, D—”</p><p>“Then what <em>are</em> you gonna wear?” Dean held out his arms akimbo. “’Cause I ain’t serving food to a slouch.”</p><p>Cas blinked, seemingly thrown off. “You’re coming?” he asked, and maybe there was a little bit more happiness in his tone than before. But Dean told himself that was nothing. Cas’ brows knitted together. “Why?”</p><p>“Eve’s sick. Flu, I think.” Dean shrugged. “Benny asked me to fill in.”</p><p>“You <em>do</em> know you can’t steal pieces of food off the plates before you serve them?” Cas said, and he probably thought he was <em>so</em> funny.</p><p>“Ha-ha. Now, come on. Let’s see the dinner jacket.”</p><p>“Why?” Cas asked again, more forcefully.</p><p>“Because,” Dean answered, twirling his hands. “I’m trying to help you out.”</p><p>Skeptically: “With what?”</p><p>Dean huffed. And it’s not like he could actually <em>say</em> he just wanted to see Cas smile more. “Look, do you want my help or not?”</p><p>“Not.”</p><p>Dean didn’t take that for an answer. He shooed him away until Cas eventually gave up and unwillingly went back inside. He left the camera, though, so Dean was pretty sure he was coming back. Probably.</p><p>Dean had just started to doubt that when Cas reappeared, garbed in a navy velvet jacket. He hadn’t changed the rest of his clothes, but the new garment alone brought out his eyes. And sometimes Dean wondered if things might be different if Cas wasn’t rich—or a man. Not that he had a problem with the latter part.</p><p>Sometimes, Dean wondered if there were other ways he could make Cas happy.</p><p>But it didn’t matter. Cas probably didn’t wonder things like that. Cas probably never even thought twice about Dean when he wasn’t around.</p><p>“Better?” Cas asked, frowning.</p><p>Dean licked his lips, stomping his thoughts down. “Much.”</p><p>Gloom fading despite himself, Cas asked, “Really?”</p><p>“Hell, yeah,” Dean teased. “Who wouldn’t wanna marry you?”</p><p>His heart rate kicked up a notch. Cas smiled down at his shoes, like it was supposed to be a secret. Some of it was still glinting in his eyes when they swept back to Dean. “I’ll see you tonight, then.”</p><p>Dean nodded, and for a second, he imagined himself in a suit, too, sitting next to Cas as the dinner table while someone else filled up their wine glasses.</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p> </p><p>It turned out Dean actually was the one serving wine. All in all, it was easy, except for the fact that the suit Benny had loaned Dean for the evening was a little too big in the shoulders, and he’d had to fasten his belt tighter than usual to keep the trousers from falling down. They kept slipping anyway whenever Dean walked, and he had to walk a lot because it was a pretty big dinner party.</p><p>At least twenty men and women in fine gowns and suits sat around the table, set with a white cloth and the finest china. Charles Novak sat at the head of the table, chatting animatedly to the men around him. Despite how imposing his portrait over the fireplace was, Chuck wasn’t actually as intimidating as everyone made him out to be. He was a short guy, kind of squirrely, and Cas definitely must have taken after his mother. But, apparently, Chuck had a temper—or so Dean was told. He’d actually never had a conversation with the guy, and that probably wasn’t changing tonight. It wasn’t like he or anyone else were actually looking at Dean.</p><p>Except maybe Cas.</p><p>Every now and again, Dean would glance over to him. Sometimes, Cas would already be looking; other times, if Dean was staring too long, Cas’ gaze would flicker to his like he could feel it, and Dean would have to look away quickly, cheeks too hot. Sometimes, they would share a look on purpose—like when Chuck started talking about how “exciting” it was that his publishing company was upping sales on bibles to universities. Or when one of the older women proclaimed how “marvelous” of a job President Johnson was doing.</p><p>One way or another, Dean’s eyes always found Cas.</p><p>And Cas really should have been looking at the girls. It was the whole reason for the dinner, after all. And Dean only felt the need to remind him of that.</p><p>Using the wine as an excuse, he elbowed between Cas and the guy sitting next to him—Balthazar, Dean thought his name was. He’d seen him around a few times before. “Cas,” he whispered, pouring the wine slowly. Cas turned his head to look at him. “Check out the girl at the end of the table.” He nodded subtly in the blonde’s direction, and Cas’ eyes slid over to her.</p><p>“Rachel?” he said, nose wrinkling like he’d just smelled something foul.</p><p>“Yeah,” Dean said, even though he had no idea if that was her name. “She’s been eyeing you all night.”</p><p>“And?”</p><p>Dean rolled his eyes. “Go talk to her!”</p><p>Cas stared at him blankly, not even trying to catch on to the fact that Dean was attempting to be incognito about this conversion. But that wasn’t the only thing he was oblivious about. “Why?”</p><p>Someone on the other side of the table caught Dean’s attention by lifting their glass. Dean tried not to outwardly grunt at the intrusion. He straightened out and walked around the table to pour the wine.</p><p>So, Cas wasn’t into Rachel. There were plenty of other girls to choose from.</p><p>He crossed back to Cas. “Okay, what about the brunette across the way?”</p><p>“Duma?” he asked incredulously. By that point, Balthazar had leaned in, too, like this was some kind of group discussion. “No.”</p><p>Dean gave a frustrated sound. Because, really, Cas wasn’t even putting in any effort. “Why not?”</p><p>Glaring icily, Cas said, “You <em>know</em> why not.”</p><p>“Cassie here is determined to remain an eternal bachelor,” Balthazar said in his uppity British accent.</p><p>Dean looked between the two of them. “I’m not saying you gotta marry her.” Definitely not that. Dean didn’t even know that he’d been doing this if there was a possibility of <em>that</em>. “Just might be good to get that stick out of your ass.”</p><p>“Well, he’s got a point there,” Balthazar chimed in, sipping his wine. Dean bought himself some time by topping him off.</p><p>Cas rolled his eyes so hard, it made him face forward again. “This conversation is over.”</p><p>“We’re just trying to help,” Dean insisted.</p><p>“Don’t.”</p><p>Dean figured he had to move on before things got suspicious. He did a lap around the table, pausing momentarily behind another blonde woman’s seat. He caught Cas’ attention and pointed to the woman, pulling his mouth down to show his approval. Cas rolled his eyes again.</p><p>“Castiel,” someone said, voice rising above the chatter. Everyone suddenly stopped talking, and Dean’s heart skipped, thinking they’d been caught. He quickly looked at Chuck.</p><p>“Um. Yes?” Cas said, and it sounded like he was afraid they’d been caught red-handed, too.</p><p>Chuck leaned away from the other man he’d been speaking with and said, “I was just telling Mr. Sunder about the new Keats addition we put out. You know—the one I loaned you?”</p><p>Dean really didn’t understand why this was an <em>everyone at the table needs to hear this</em> kind of conversation, but Chuck was a weird guy like that. Cas was a weird guy, too, but in a different way. Dean wondered if his sister was also weird. He was kind of scared to find out.</p><p>“Yes, I… remember,” Cas said, and now he <em>really</em> sounded guilty of something.</p><p>“Great!” Chuck exclaimed. “I’m sure our guests would love to hear you recite one of the poems before dessert.” A few of the women around the table voiced their agreement, and Dean had to admit, he’d kind of like to hear that himself. He didn’t even know Cas was interested in poetry—not that Dean was. But he was also just the guy who served the wine.</p><p>Cas didn’t answer for a long second. It kind of looked like he’d shut down—expression neutral, eyes not even blinking. Then, he swallowed and said, “Of course. Allow me… time to decide.”</p><p>And Dean realized immediately that Cas <em>wasn’t</em> interested in poetry.</p><p>“You got it,” Chuck said, nodding proudly. He returned to his conversation. The chatter and the clinking of utensils on dishes started up again. Cas glanced up at Dean, something on his face begging for help, and Dean had no idea what the hell he could do. He watched Cas pick up his wine glass and knock it back, draining it in one go.</p><p>Quickly, Dean walked around the table to him. “You didn’t read the book, did you?” he said, not really asking, as he refilled the glass.</p><p>“I never found occasion,” Cas excused.</p><p>“It’s likely Mr. Novak only gave Castiel the book so that he might impress the ladies tonight,” Balthazar said, and Dean didn’t know Chuck all that well, but it seemed like something he’d do.</p><p>Dean shrugged. “Okay? So, why not get the book and read one of the poems out loud?”</p><p>Castiel shook his head. He picked up his wine glass and drank a little more so that Dean had an excuse to stick around—or maybe he was trying to get drunk. Both things seemed possible. “He’ll expect me to have one memorized.”</p><p>Dean chewed on his cheek, eyes scanning the room. He tried not to linger too long on Chuck, but Chuck’s gaze lifted, connecting with his. Dean quickly looked away. It was kind of bizarre. For a second, Dean was almost afraid of the guy, like everyone else was.</p><p>“Okay,” he said again, coming up with a plan. “Where’s the book?”</p><p>Cas sighed.</p><p>“<em>Cas</em>. The book?”</p><p>“The music room. I think.”</p><p>“You think?”</p><p>“Unless someone moved it. Why?”</p><p>Dean didn’t answer. He stood up straighter. “I’ll be right back.” He ignored Cas’ whisper-shouts urgently calling after him. Dean left the room and headed straight for the music room on the other side of the house. Once there, he did a cursory scan, not finding a book on any of the surfaces. He went over to the shelves on the wall, carding through the spines.</p><p>“Keats, Keats, Keats,” he muttered under his breath. His mother liked Keats—he thought. Maybe it was another poet. He remembered her reading <em>someone’s</em> poetry to him and Sam before bed, probably for the same reason Chuck had given this book to Cas. But, as luck would have it, Dean never had a need for things like that. He wondered what kind of person he’d be if he had. He wondered if he’d even recognize himself in that kind of life.</p><p>“Keats!” he exclaimed, finding the book. Quickly, he tore it off the shelf and flipped through the pages, looking for a poem short enough for Cas to memorize in a few minutes. There was one just a few lines long, so it would have to do. Dean just hoped it would be appropriate for a dinner party.</p><p>He ripped out the page and put the book on the shelf. On his way back to the dining room, he folded the page in half. By the time he got there, the servers were already clearing the plates away from in front of the guests in preparation for dessert.</p><p>“Shit,” Dean hissed. He tried to be as inconspicuous as possible when he walked to Cas’ seat and picked up his dinner plate. He dropped the folded piece of paper onto Cas’ lap. Cas looked down at it, realization dawning on his face. Wide eyes snapped up to Dean. Dean winked and slapped him on the shoulder. “Go get ‘em.” He could feel Cas staring daggers at him as he walked away.</p><p>After returning the plate to the kitchen, Dean got back to work pouring drinks. This time, it was dessert wine instead of plain, regular wine—whatever that meant. He’d cast glances to Cas every now and again, watching him surreptitiously studying the piece of paper beneath the table. The way his eyes moved fractionally across the page, the pout of his lips, the furrow in his brow. His forehead was lined in intense thought. Dean wanted to smooth out all those lines, to coax the frown off his face and—</p><p>“<em>Ahem</em>.”</p><p>Dean looked down at the person he was pouring wine for. She looked back up at him, appalled. He had no idea why until he realized he’d poured the drink way too high. He caught it just before it flooded over the rim. Some of it splashed onto the table cloth, its crimson color bleeding into the fresh white. “Fuck, sorry,” he said before he could stop himself. The woman’s expression turned horrified. “I mean…” He cleared his throat. “Sorry.” He moved on before she had a chance to judge him any further.</p><p>When Chuck clinked his spoon against his glass, the room fell silent again. The servers stopped what they were doing and stood away from the table, giving their attention. Dean figured he should probably do the same.</p><p>“Well, dessert will be served soon,” Chuck said, standing up. There was a big smile on his face. “Hope everyone likes trifle.” A hushed kind of laughter went through the room, and Dean didn’t really know what was so funny about trifle. “But, before that, I believe my son wanted to provide some entertainment for the night.”</p><p>Dean licked his lips, bringing his attention to Cas. Cas looked like someone was holding him at gunpoint.</p><p>Chuck waved a hand to Cas as he sat back down. “Castiel. Floor’s yours.”</p><p>It took a second. Everyone was still and quiet, which somehow made it even more embarrassing when Cas’ chair scratched against the floor as he stood up. “Um,” he said, glaring back at the chair like it’d just offended him. His fists were practically red as he clutched them at his sides. Dean almost deflated in a sigh. Cas was really so hopeless.</p><p>“Yes. I’ll…”</p><p><em>Stop looking at the table, you dick</em>, Dean thought furiously. And, as if Cas could read his mind, he glanced up.</p><p>“I’ll be reciting one of Keats’ last works.”</p><p>No one said anything. They just waited. Dean’s secondhand embarrassment was practically through the roof.</p><p>Stiltedly, Cas started, “Bright star, would I were as steadfast as thou. Not… Not in lone splendor hung aloft the night—And watching, with eternal lids apart…”</p><p>Cas wasn’t exactly Shakespeare, that was for sure. Every now and again, he would glance over to Dean, and Dean would try his best to give a smile or a nod of encouragement. He just hoped the women didn’t notice how damn awkward Cas was.</p><p>
  <em>Like nature’s patient, sleepless Eremite,<br/>
</em>
  <em>The moving waters at their priestlike task<br/>
</em>
  <em>Of pure ablution round earth’s human shores,</em><br/>
<em>Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask<br/>
</em>
  <em>Of snow upon the mountains and the moors—</em>
</p><p>Actually, maybe Dean hadn’t given Cas enough credit before. He had no idea what the poem was talking about, but Cas seemed to. He stopped a few times, swallowing, voice becoming thicker because of it. His hands flexed and folded at his sides. And Dean could almost hear Cas’ heartbeat. Or maybe it wasn’t Cas’.</p><p>It had to be. Because Dean’s heart was in his throat.</p><p>He didn’t know he was staring until Cas’ steady eyes latched onto him.</p><p>“No,” Cas kept reciting, but it didn’t sound like someone else’s words. “Yet still steadfast, still unchangeable, pillowed upon my love’s ripening breast, to feel for ever its soft rise and swell…”</p><p>Dean’s jaw had been tensed before. He didn’t know when it had gone so slack.</p><p>“Awake for ever in a sweet unrest… Still, still to hear hi—” He cut himself off, breaking eye contact suddenly. The almost violent suddenness of it made Dean blink back into reality.</p><p>“<em>Her</em> tender-taken breath.” Cas’ eyes were down and to the side now. The last part came out in a whisper, and Dean barely processed it: “And so live ever—or else swoon to death.”</p><p>Dean was hardly aware of the pause that fell after that, until, slowly people began clapping politely. He looked anywhere but at Cas, mostly because he wasn’t really sure what had just happened. All he knew was that the large dining room was suddenly way too stuffy, and he couldn’t find enough air to breathe. He was getting lightheaded from the lack of oxygen.</p><p>He had to get some air.</p><p>As quickly as he could without breaking into a sprint, he left the room. He didn’t stop walking, not even when he was outside. He was halfway back to the carriage house, in the garden with the snowdrop flowers and the cherub fountains, when he finally stopped. His spine was rocking with chills in the cold, and his teeth ached with how tight he was clenching them. His fists were shaking at his sides, and he told himself that was from the cold, too. So was the flush in his cheeks.</p><p>He felt too hot for it to be from the weather.</p><p>Dean blinked over at the snowdrops, eyes following the curve of their weeping blooms.</p><p>And, no, he realized. No. He <em>really</em> didn’t want Cas to get married, either. Because maybe, with the right girl, it’d make Cas happy. But it’d make Dean fucking miserable.</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p> </p><p>The dinner was over—and thank God for that.</p><p>It was late now, and Dean was helping with clean up duty, mostly taking serving plates and utensils from the dining room to the kitchen. It was mindless work, but he did his best to keep his thoughts from wandering. Because, if they did, they’d go back to Cas.</p><p>Even then, he kept going over the evening in his head, mostly the way Cas had looked at him during that poem. Like he was talking to Dean specifically—but Dean had no idea what he was trying to say.</p><p>He rattled his head as he exited the kitchen, headed back to the dining room one last time to see if he was finished. More than anything, he just wanted to be unconscious. But someone called his name from behind him, and Dean looked over to find Benny tailing him into the hallway.</p><p>“Oh,” Dean said, only a little relieved. Honestly, he felt bad about rushing out so quickly before. He didn’t want anyone to think he wasn’t a team player. “Benny, hey. Thought you’d gone home for the night.”</p><p>“Nah. Doin’ my part with the clean up first," Benny said, catching up. He came to a rest against the opposite wall of the hallway, leaning against it and folding his arm. He seemed to be eyeing Dean like Dean had just been wounded in battle. “I wanted to say thanks for pitchin’ in tonight but… I’m told you cut out at the end of the night.” Dean tried to keep Benny’s eyes; he really did. “Everything alright?”</p><p>Dean shook his head before deciding to nod instead. “Yeah! I just… You know. Rich people. Only so much I can take, I guess.”</p><p>Benny gave a quick, low laugh. “I hear you there, brother.” And Dean almost thought he was off the hook before Benny’s eyes narrowed on him. “But you sure it’s nothing else?”</p><p>For a brief moment, Dean imagined telling him. Telling him that there were times, more and more frequently, when he looked at Cas and knew he’d be the death of him.</p><p>Someone squeezed between them on her hurried way to the kitchen, her arms laden with empty serving plates. It made Dean come to his senses.</p><p>He nodded, forced a grin. “All good.”</p><p>“Good,” Benny said. “Glad to hear that. Especially since… Well, no secret Castiel had a hell of a night. I’d hate to have to deal with two sad sacks in this house.”</p><p>Dean stomach lurched, partly in confusion and partly in worry. “Cas? Why, what—?” He suddenly wanted to throw up. What had happened after he left? Did Chuck pick a match for Cas? Was Cas engaged?</p><p>Benny only waved it away. “Ah, he’s always that way whenever Novak puts on one of these things, you know that.” Dean reminded himself to breathe. He didn’t know why he’d gotten so worked up. Benny shrugged. “Shame, really. All this for nothin’. It’s not like Castiel will ever look twice at any women coming through that door.”</p><p>And what the hell was that supposed to mean? Dean was experiencing that weird, dizzy, breathless feeling again. “Why not?”</p><p>Benny snorted. “C’mon, now. We all know he ain’t exactly interested in the fairer sex.”</p><p>Dean blinked dumbly. Slowly, his mind worked, fitting all the pieces together.</p><p>And, holy shit, he’d been a dumbass…</p><p>Benny put his hand on Dean's shoulder, nodding. “’Night, Dean,” he said, and then he was gone, walking back toward the kitchen.</p><p>Dean stared after him, mouth hanging open, blood rushing in his ears. He felt like he was going crazy. He felt… hopeful. And he tried his damnedest to convince himself that Benny was wrong. There was no way. And, even if there was, it wasn’t like Cas would want anything to do with <em>him</em>. Dean was the hired help. More than that—he was poisonous. He was better alone. <em>Cas</em> was better alone.</p><p>He turned, walking back in the direction of the foyer, but he really wasn’t paying attention to where he was headed. He had tunnel-vision, eyes on the carpet, head spinning. He wasn’t sure why he looked up—but he instantly met a very familiar pair of blue eyes near the staircase. Dean was surprised he didn’t scream like a little girl.</p><p>They stared at each other for a long second, neither of them moving. Dean felt like he was glued to the floor.</p><p>And then Cas averted his eyes. He said, “Hello, Dean.”</p><p>Dean swallowed, and it put some feeling back into his limbs. “Uh. Hey, Cas,” he said, daring to walk closer, but not too close. He didn’t look at Cas; Cas didn’t look at him.</p><p>“I… You ran out,” Cas said, stumbling.</p><p>“Yeah.” Dean forced a choppy laugh. “All the fumes from the wine must’a got to my head.”</p><p>Cas blinked, expression suddenly pinched with concern. “Are you feeling alright?”</p><p>“Yeah, yeah,” Dean said, dismissing it with a wave. “Just needed some air. You know.”</p><p>“Of course.”</p><p>Another pause, and if Dean thought he’d been embarrassed before…</p><p>“So, uh. The poem.” Damn it. Why did he say that? Cas’ eyes widened fractionally. Dean licked his lips, rubbing at the heat on the back of his neck. “You… you did good.”</p><p>Cas was quiet. Then, “Thank you, Dean.”</p><p>“What…” He shouldn’t ask this. It was better if he didn’t know. “What was it about?” God, he was an idiot. “Sounded to me like some guy wanted to be a star or something.”</p><p>Cas was looking at him again. Dean could feel it on his skin. “No,” Cas said. “Stars are… desolate. Lonely. Watching the earth forever. And he…”</p><p>Dean found the blue again. It was a mistake. He had the urge to grab Cas by the waist and pull him in. When had they gravitated so close to each other?</p><p>“He wants to live forever… but only if he can be with the one he loves,” Cas said. “And, if he can’t have that, he’d rather die.”</p><p>It was hard to swallow. There was a rock in Dean’s throat. It almost hurt to talk, and he heard the rasping of his own voice. “Sounds intense.”</p><p>“Some would call it romantic,” Cas told him. “I imagine it could be. If—if that’s what it means to be in love.”</p><p>Dean closed his eyes. He couldn’t do this. Benny had to be wrong. For Dean’s own sanity, Benny had to be wrong.</p><p>“Dean…”</p><p>“I gotta go,” Dean said quickly, ripping his eyes open. He practically stumbled backward. “I, uh… I’ll see you tomorrow.”</p><p>Cas had stood up a little straighter, that stunned expression back on his face. “Yes, that’s—I should as well.” He turned quickly, marching up the stairs. “Goodnight, Dean,” he called over his shoulder.</p><p>Dean walked quickly in the opposite direction, every inch of his skin buzzing.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>thanks for reading! i've been feeling kinda emo and unmotivated with this story lately. i do plan on finishing it, but some motivation would be greatly appreciated haha</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>2020</strong>
</p><p>Castiel could feel himself slipping into a routine. It wasn’t one he particularly enjoyed, either. Dean would leave for work or class in the morning; Castiel would get out of bed, bathe and dress, fight with the coffee maker that he still didn’t quite know how to work properly, and eat breakfast while watching the news. In the afternoon, he would do his best to go outside—to walk in the park or stroll into town. Once, he tried to go to a museum, but he didn’t have enough money for the exorbitant entrance fee of $20. He soon learned that the price of almost everything was about the same—or more. And he didn’t quite feel comfortable asking Dean for more money.</p><p>He was able to get himself a “library card,” however. He supposed that could help him catch up with the times.</p><p>When Dean came home each night, he would pick a movie for them to watch, and Castiel came to the conclusion that much of the world had a penchant for violence and gore. Still, he liked sitting on the couch with Dean, watching a movie on the television, or curling up together in his bed to view one on Dean’s laptop—though those instances usually led to the movie being ignored.</p><p>Dean promised him that, once the days edged closer to the weekend, life would become more exciting. Things like “basketball games” and “frat parties” and “brunch” were on the horizon, and Castiel was both fearful and excited to find out what any of those things were. But, in truth, most of his days were beginning to bleed together—always the same. Like they had been in the manor. Like they had been when he was dead. </p><p>He wouldn’t mind some variety.</p><p>That morning, the local news station was playing a story on the upcoming town “Thanksgiving Parade.” Castiel recalled the holiday. He remembered reading President Lincoln’s address at Gettysburg declaring the occasion. He’d celebrated it once at Balthazar’s family’s estate, and Gabriel’s family might have held a charity event on the day another year. It seemed the holiday had caught on, though he wasn’t quite certain what balloons in the shape of cartoons had to do with anything.</p><p>He was pondering the question when there was a hurried knock at the back door. Castiel quickly looked over, nearly spilling his coffee in the progress. He froze, the drone of the television merely providing background noise to the thrumming of his heart. The knock came again, rattling the door.</p><p>Castiel lifted himself off the couch and went to the door, opening it. Kelly and Jack were standing on the other side of the screen. Castiel relaxed.</p><p>So did Kelly. She said, “Castiel. Thank God. I didn’t know if you were home.”</p><p>He wasn’t sure where else he’d be. “I’m here. Hello.” He opened up the screen door, looking down at Jack, who was bundled in an orange corduroy coat. A small backpack with a colorful design of the fish movie he and Castiel had watched hung at his side. “Hello, Jack.”</p><p>“Hi, Cas!” Jack said happily, a stark contrast to his mother’s drawn expression.</p><p>“This is going to sound crazy, and I’d totally understand if you said no,” Kelly said in a fluster. She pushed her hair back, car keys knocking against her forehead from where they hung from her finger. “But Jack’s kindergarten is closed for the day. Apparently, a pipe burst. I’d skip classes, but I have a huge project due in my international affairs class and—oh, that’s not—it’s not important.”</p><p>Castiel nodded, trying to keep up with her rushed words.</p><p>“But I was hoping, if you don’t have anything to do today,” she said, clapping her hand to Jack’s shoulder, “if you could watch him? It’d only be for a few hours!”</p><p>Castiel looked down at Jack again, and he wasn’t certain if Kelly’s anxiety was infectious or if he was panicking on his own. He had no idea how to look after a child. He tried to recall some of the things he did when he was Jack’s age. His tutors had begun teaching him how to ride horses, play the piano, read and write. Currently, he wasn’t in possession of any instruments, and he wasn’t even sure if people bothered with equine lessons now that cars were invented, but he got the feeling he was Kelly’s only hope.</p><p>He wanted to help her. She was a woman studying in college. And a woman pursuing a career in the government. He wanted to do everything he could to help her succeed. Besides, Jack seemed to be a well-mannered child. How difficult could it be?</p><p>“Of course,” he said, and Kelly let out a giant sigh of relief.</p><p>“Thank you so much!” she panted. Then, she turned her attention to her son. “Honey, you’re gonna spend the day with Castiel, okay?”</p><p>“Okay,” Jack said agreeably.</p><p>“Now, you listen to what he tells you,” Kelly instructed. She pointed a firm finger at him, but something on her face was humored. In a faux-stern tone, he said, “If you’re bad, I’ll know, young man.”</p><p>Jack smiled, reaching up to touch his small fingertip to hers. “You’ll know,” he repeated.</p><p>“That’s right.” She winked at him, then crouched down to give him a hug. When she released him, Jack squeezed past Castiel into the living room.</p><p>“Thanks again,” Kelly said, brushing another strand of hair back from her face. “I really owe you.”</p><p>“No, you don’t,” he told her genuinely. “I’m happy to help.”</p><p>She nodded, again saying, “Thanks. And, um… He’s already had his breakfast. He eats lunch around one o’clock, and he gets pretty cranky after that, but it usually only lasts about ten minutes before he passes out for a nap. What else? Um… No allergies. And, oh! Don’t let him have anything nougat! He’ll try to con you into giving him a candy bar, but don’t listen. Once you give him one, you’ll never hear the end of it until he’s eaten six.”</p><p>Castiel narrowed his eyes, wondering if he’d remember any of that. “Got it. No…” What was the word she’d used? “Nougat.” He had no idea what that was.</p><p>“Call me if you have any questions,” she said, and at least he’d learned how to do that.</p><p>“We’ll be fine,” he promised. “No need to worry. Focus on your studies.”</p><p>She gave him a grateful, close-mouthed smile. “Thanks again,” she said, quite needlessly. “I’ll come pick him up around four.”</p><p>He tried to smile to disarm her, but with every slow backwards step she took toward her car, his apprehension rose higher and higher in his throat. She waved. “Bye, Castiel.” Then, louder, “Bye, Jack! Be good!”</p><p>“Bye, Mommy!” Jack called. He was already sitting on the couch, kicking his legs off the side and watching the television.</p><p>Kelly turned and got into her car, and Castiel closed the door. His throat was practically clogged with fear that he’d somehow mess up. He turned to Jack, attempting to appear in control.</p><p>“So. Jack.”</p><p>Jack looked over at him with mild interest.</p><p>“What, um… What would you like to do today?” Castiel asked.</p><p>Jack’s expression skewed in consideration. After some deliberation, he asked, “Do you have any candy?”</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p> </p><p>They settled on going to the “playground,” which Jack informed Castiel was inside the park. It was a ten-minute walk from the townhouse, and it seemed they had the entire area to themselves that morning. Jack wanted to play in the “sandbox” first. Castiel sat on the edge, watching the boy dig a hole that he swore would reach China despite Castiel’s insistence that such a thing was impossible.</p><p>Though, he wasn’t exactly the authority on what’s possible anymore. That point was highlighted when Jack dropped his shovel and pointed excitedly upwards to the sky, proclaiming, “Cas, look!”</p><p>Castiel swiveled around and squinted upward at the cool blue sky, expecting to find a flock of geese headed south for the winter. Instead, he found a single object soaring through the air. It resembled a bird, though it had a metallic glint. The faint hum of machinery reached his ears as the object ascended higher toward the clouds.</p><p>“What is that?” he asked. He put his hand over his eyes as a visor to continue looking at the machine.</p><p>“A plane,” Jack told him, and by the tone of his voice, Castiel inferred this was a common occurrence. He wondered what purpose the machine served. He was about to ask when Jack went on: “I was on a plane once—to visit Grandma and Grandpa. I don’t remember it, though.” He went back to his digging, unaware of the inquisitiveness of Castiel’s expression. “Mommy says we’re gonna go on another one for Christmas. I think I’ll like it.”</p><p>Castiel’s eyes flashed upward to the so-called plane, but it had become much smaller with distance, and it had gotten a lot further away than he’d anticipated. “There are people on it?” he asked. He recalled once seeing a hot air balloon as a child. He’d tugged on his father’s sleeve, asking if they could take a ride inside of it. Chuck had promised him they’d go another time, but he never made good on it. Castiel had watched the colorful balloon rise higher and higher until the people inside were nothing but tiny dots. He wondered what it must have been like to fly.</p><p>The people in that plane were even higher. They were grazing the clouds.</p><p>Jack dropped his shovel, appearing to give up on digging. “Have you ever been on one?”</p><p>Castiel shook his head. He thought he’d like to go on a plane. It must have been a remarkable thing to traverse the skies. He felt his lips pull upward at the thought. Yes, he’d very much like to go on a plane.</p><p>“No,” he said. He wondered what else this century had to offer. “It seems I haven’t done much of anything.”</p><p>Jack’s expression rearranged into something earnest. He stood up and stepped closer to put his small hand on Castiel’s shoulder. “It’s okay,” he assured. “I haven’t done a lot, either. Maybe we can do stuff together.”</p><p>Tenderness bloomed in Castiel’s chest. He questioned whether or not all children of this century were like this boy. Something told him they weren’t. “Thank you, Jack. I’d like that.”</p><p>Jack grinned, satisfied. “Have you ever been on the swings?” He gestured toward the swing set on the other side of the playground.</p><p>Castiel had never seen a swing like that before. He was used to a wooden plank suspended from the bow of a tree—but he assumed it was the same principle. “Yes, I’ve been on a swing.”</p><p>“Let’s go!” Jack said, lighting up. He grabbed Castiel’s wrist and leaped out of the sandbox. Castiel scrambled to get up, hunched over as Jack pulled him along.</p><p>He had to give Jack a few pushes at first to get the swing started, but then the boy insisted he could do it on his own from there. He pumped his tiny legs back and forth, giggling harder the higher he got. Castiel took the swing next to him. In no time, he’d caught up to Jack’s height. Their arcs went in opposing directions, Castiel swinging backward while Jack went forward. He heard Jack letting out small whooping sounds whenever they passed each other.</p><p>“This is like flying, too!” Jack exclaimed beyond the rushing sound of wind in Castiel’s ears. Castiel laughed, the sound getting lost behind him.</p><p>They spent another hour at the park, until the chill in the early November air seeped into their bones despite the bright sunlight. As they walked back in the direction of the townhouse, Jack skipped alongside Castiel, breathlessly telling him about how he’d just begun going to school in September, and that his kindergarten teacher said he was the best in the class at the ABCs, which he demonstrated by singing the song. He also informed Castiel that his goal was to know how to read before he entered first grade.</p><p>And Castiel was astonished by it—a boy his age and social standing attending school, becoming literate. It was a marvel; though, despite the apparent education given to the youth of this time period, Castiel found himself certain that Jack was one of the more intelligent children in his class. He had nothing to base that on other than a gut feeling.</p><p>“Well, I think that deserves a reward,” Castiel praised after Jack concluded his ABC song. He knew he was bending Kelly’s rules, but perhaps it would be okay just this once. He asked, “The… nougat your mother mentioned?” Jack looked up at him with immediate interest. “Where can we find some?”</p><p>Jack directed Castiel to the “grocery store” not far from the park. He had an excellent sense of direction for one so young, which only furthered Castiel’s belief that Jack was leagues more intelligent than any of his peers. Jack held Castiel’s hand while they crossed the street to the store. The doors to the inside opened by themselves, which had been a surprise at first, but Jack only laughed at Castiel’s wide-eyed reaction and said, “Isn’t it cool?”</p><p>For that, Castiel let Jack ride inside a colorful, plastic version of a car that was attached to the “shopping carts.” He pushed the cart through the store of polished tile, sickly green lights, and more food than Castiel had ever seen in one place. Music played overhead, and every now and again, a garbled voice called for an employee to attend to a particular aisle. Castiel didn’t know whether the entire experience made him feel more intimidated or awed.</p><p>At first, he didn’t think they’d ever find the nougat among the sea of products, but luckily, each aisle had an overhead sign signifying what items were in each. The sign above aisle twelve proclaimed <em>candy, popcorn, gum,</em> and<em> toys &amp; games</em>, so Castiel was fairly certain they were in the right place. Though, once he turned into the aisle, he instantly felt out of his depth with the sheer variety of everything.</p><p>“Which… which do we choose?” he asked, pondering the multicolored wrappings of each product.</p><p>From behind the wheel of the toy car, Jack indicated a silver wrapper reading <em>Milky Way</em>. “That one!”</p><p>Castiel picked it up and inspected it carefully, though he wasn’t sure why. He assumed Jack knew more about these things than he did.</p><p>“Can I have two?” Jack asked, bouncing, and Castiel considered that the boy may actually be too smart for his own good.</p><p>He shifted his eyes to Jack. “<em>Please</em>,” he said, reminding Jack of his manners.</p><p>“Please!” Jack repeated, annunciating the word clearly.</p><p>“No. You can have one.” Jack’s expression soured. Castiel glanced back at the shelf where he’d gotten the candy bar. The price beneath it read, <em>2 for $3</em>, which seemed like a lot of money, but he tried to remind himself that everything in this century was inflated. He picked up a second bar and put them both in the cart. “And I’ll have one. And we won’t tell your mother.” He winked at Jack, like Kelly had done that morning. “It’ll be our secret.”</p><p>Jack winked back, seeming in good spirits despite not getting his way. “Our secret.”</p><p>When he wheeled the cart around to head toward the register, Castiel caught sight of a miniature plastic airplane on the wall of toys. He recalled how excited Jack had been upon seeing the real plane that morning—and Castiel wanted to buy him the toy, to give Jack something to remember their day by.</p><p>The price of the toy was ten dollars, and Castiel only had five on him—enough for the candy, but not much else. He walked past the toy, attempting not to feel too crestfallen. He could always purchase it later when he had more money.</p><p>But that was the issue. <em>He</em> didn’t have any money. Dean did. Just like Castiel had never had any money that wasn’t his father’s. If he ever wanted to purchase Jack a gift—or if he ever wanted to truly be a part of this world—he needed funds of his own.</p><p>Castiel pushed the cart to the front of the store, half-listening to the revving noises Jack was making with his mouth as he played with the fake steering wheel inside the toy car. He wondered if he should begin looking for employment.</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p> </p><p>Just as Kelly predicted, Jack fell fast asleep after lunch. Castiel brought him back to the Winchesters’ townhouse and fixed them both peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, since he knew they both enjoyed them. Jack made a valiant attempt to stay awake for a few minutes afterward, insisting they find a movie to watch, or a game to play, or something to read. He produced a cardboard, colorful book about farm animals out of his backpack and curled up to Castiel’s side on the couch. He was asleep two pages into the story.</p><p>Castiel laid Jack down on the couch, watching the child hug his stuffed bear close to his chest and snuggle against the throw pillow. He spread the tartan blanket wedged into the couch cushions over Jack’s small form and tucked him in. Jack made a grunting noise, and Castiel feared he’d disturbed him until Jack immediately settled back into sleep.</p><p>He straightened out over the couch, fondness pulling at his heartstrings as he watched Jack sleep. The day had been an enjoyable one, if not somewhat overwhelming at times. But he felt as if he had a somewhat better understanding of this new world than he’d had previously. Jack was an excellent guide, despite the fact that he was only learning about the world himself. Perhaps that’s what made him so good at it. Perhaps the two of them could learn together.</p><p>Who knew? Maybe Castiel might teach Jack something, too. He’d like that.</p><p>Outside, there was a familiar, full-throated rumble on the driveway. Castiel squinted out the side window, seeing the flash of sunlight on the Impala’s roof as it drove around to the back of the house. He hadn’t expected Dean home so soon—not that he was complaining. Maybe Dean would have some ideas on how to keep Jack occupied when he woke up. They could care for him together.</p><p>Castiel drifted back toward the kitchen and picked up the empty, crumb-strewn plates off the table from lunch. He was depositing them in the sink when Dean came through the back door.</p><p>“Hey,” he called, hanging his car keys on the hook next to the door.</p><p>Castiel whirled around, holding a finger to his lips. His eyes flickered to Jack, thankfully still asleep. Dean seemed confused until Castiel pointed Jack out to him. “He’s napping.”</p><p>Dean’s perplexed frown deepened, but he dropped his voice to a rumbling whisper when he asked, “Is that the kid from next door?”</p><p>“Jack,” Castiel corrected, walking around the island counter. “Yes. Kelly dropped him off after you left. She said his… his <em>kindergarten</em> was closed for the day.”</p><p>Dean came into the kitchen, still not seeming to understand despite the way he nodded. “Okay. So?”</p><p>“So, I told her I’d watch him for the day.” He sat down at the table and folded his hands in front of him on the linoleum. “We… had fun.” He felt the corners of his mouth pulling into a pleased smile. “We went to the playground.”</p><p>“Oh,” Dean answered, almost surprised. “Well, good. That’s great. Glad you had a good morning.” He spotted the jar of peanut butter on the counter and snatched it up, cracking open the lid. “Looks like you had lunch already.” He dipped his finger into the jar and scooped out some of the spread, then put it directly in his mouth.</p><p>Castiel frowned in distaste. “Yes. Why?”</p><p>Dean shrugged, walking over. “Nah, nothing. Wouldn’t wanna come between you and your PB&amp;J.” He kneed at Castiel’s thigh, silently telling Castiel to sit back. Castiel complied, and Dean perched himself heavily on Castiel’s lap despite the perfectly good chair right across the table. He hooked his finger back into the jar. “Just thought you might be up for that diner date we never got to go on.” Castiel declined the offered glob of peanut butter on Dean’s finger. Dean pouted before shoving it into his own mouth.</p><p>He felt remorse for having prevented a <em>date</em>, as Dean called it. He didn’t know much about courting, and he assumed it had changed since his days as a bachelor, but he definitely wanted to <em>date</em> Dean. “I believe I’ll be hungry for dinner in a few hours,” he pointed out.</p><p>Dean hummed, staring down into the jar, and Castiel sincerely hoped he wasn’t contemplating sticking his finger in it again. “Yeah, yeah, but, uh—” Dean cleared his throat. “I was thinkin’. You know how we went to my grave a few days ago?”</p><p>How could Castiel forget? “Of course.”</p><p>“Yeah, and you know how we found jack shit?”</p><p>Castiel nodded. He wouldn’t call the trip to the cemetery a complete waste of time, but they certainly now had more questions than answers.</p><p>“Well… How do you feel about checking out your grave tonight?” Dean pushed a phony smile, probably already knowing how Castiel would <em>feel</em> about it.</p><p>And Castiel didn’t feel good about it at all. More than that, it wouldn’t give them any clues. If he didn’t have to step foot on the manor’s grounds again, he’d like not to. That went doubly for the family plot. He hated going into the cemetery when he’d been alive; he certainly didn’t want to go there now that his bones were part of the dirt.</p><p>“Is that necessary?” he asked stiffly.</p><p>Dean dropped his eyes again. “I dunno, Cas,” he huffed. “Maybe? Could be a lead.”</p><p>“It isn’t a lead,” Castiel tried.</p><p>Dean only sighed again. “Look, I’m working with what I got,” he said, tone on the verge of frustration. “You got any better ideas, you let me know.”</p><p>Castiel didn’t have any better ideas. He looked back in the living room, watching Jack still asleep on the couch. He’d been having such a nice day…</p><p>“I get it, Cas,” Dean told him, voice softer. “Look, if you don’t wanna come, that’s fine. Me and Sammy’ll go. You can hang back here.”</p><p>As much as Castiel didn’t want to go to the manor, he didn’t want to sit around the apartment waiting for Dean and Sam to return. And he didn’t want Dean to think him useless or apathetic. He would just prefer to learn more about life in its current state than to dwell on his past life. But reconciling the two seemed important to Dean—so, it would be important to Castiel.</p><p>“No, I’ll… I’ll come,” Castiel relented.</p><p>Dean appeared a little more at ease. “Alright. Cool. So, we’ll go after Kelly comes by to get the kid?”</p><p>Castiel nodded. He didn’t know when that would be, but he hoped it wasn’t any time soon. If he was returning home, he wanted time to mentally prepare himself.</p><p>“Cool,” Dean said again, capping the peanut butter and setting it on the table. “I’ll get some homework done in the meantime. Should probably do that before I flunk outta college.”</p><p>“Well, we wouldn’t want that,” Castiel said.</p><p>“Oh!” Dean exclaimed suddenly, as if he’d just remembered something. He held up one finger, then dug into the pocket of his leather jacket. He produced a small card, presenting it to Castiel. On it, Castiel saw a picture of himself that Dean had made him take a few days ago. It also had his name, a date of birth with the year 1997, an address, and his height and eye color. There was some other information on it that Castiel didn’t understand. The top of the card read <em>Massachusetts</em> and <em>driver’s license.</em></p><p>“What is it?” Castiel asked, unimpressed.</p><p>Dean’s face dropped. “Fake ID,” he explained. “Pretty damn good one, if I don’t say so myself. Kinda a side business of mine.” He seemed rather smug. He had the same mischievous look on his face as he did the first time he made Castiel taste the moonshine he’d made. So, Castiel could only infer this business of fake IDs was illegal.</p><p>“Can’t make you a birth certificate or a social security number or anything,” Dean said then, staring down at the card, “but, hey, at least you’ll be able to get into bars now, right? And I can teach you to drive… if you want.”</p><p>Castiel had mostly tuned out. He hadn’t meant to, but he suddenly felt as if his ears were clogged with cotton. His throat went dry. A few hours ago, he’d been thinking of finding a job, but it hadn’t fully dawned on him that, no matter how independent he tried to become, he was still technically dead and had been for a very long time. He didn’t know if it would ever truly be possible to exist in this new world. He would always be dependent on another. He wasn’t certain he could live that way for long. Even if he could, he wondered if Dean would become sick of him after a while and leave.</p><p>It wouldn’t be the first time.</p><p>“Yes, I…” He tried for a shaky smile. “I would like that, Dean. Thank you.” He lifted the ID from Dean’s hand, taking a closer look at it. It didn’t offer him any answers, but he supposed it was something for the time being.</p><p>“Sure,” Dean said, voice a little relieved. He slid his palm to Castiel’s jaw and stroked his cheek with his thumb, and it was almost enough for Castiel to forget his troubles.  “And, don’t worry about it, okay? We’ll figure out the rest.”</p><p>Dean’s optimism buoyed Castiel’s spirit somewhat. He allowed himself to believe it, and nodded. After all, he had Dean. Everything else would come in time. “Okay.”</p><p>“Okay,” Dean echoed, patting Castiel’s cheek. He leaned in and pecked a peanut butter flavored kiss to Castiel’s lips. Then, he groaned, rallying himself, “Fuckin’ homework.” And Castiel was glad Jack had still been asleep as to not hear such profanity.</p><p>Dean picked himself off Castiel’s lap and trudged upstairs to his bedroom. Castiel watched after him. It was harder to hold onto optimism once Dean was out of sight.</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p> </p><p>Castiel stared through the rusted bars of the manor’s gate. The perimeter wall was still in relatively good shape, though it appeared to be crumbling in certain spots. Dean was busy cutting through the shiny new chain bounding the gate with bolt cutters, and he’d already ripped down the yellow police tape that had been put up since the last time they’d broken into the manor.</p><p>The house itself was a black shape at the top of the hill, a towering monolith of loose brick, splinters, and sharp iron. Castiel shoved his hands deeper into his coat pockets, a chill overcoming him that he thought had little to do with the whistling wind through the trees.</p><p>Dean pushed the gate open with an ancient creak. He went back to the Impala parked on the side of the road, put the bolt cutters into the trunk, and pulled out a flashlight. Castiel barely paid him any mind. It wasn’t until Dean’s hand touched the small of his back did he realize he’d been staring blankly. He couldn’t quite recall the last few seconds. His mind had been vacant, all feeling and emotion within him rendered numb. Quickly, he shook himself and turned his focus on Dean.</p><p>“You ready?” Dean asked.</p><p>The answer was no. Nevertheless, Castiel responded, “Let’s get this over with.”</p><p>“Hey,” Dean said, increasing the pressure of his palm on Castiel’s back. “We’ll be in and out. And we won’t even go inside.”</p><p>Castiel exhaled, trying to be comforted. “I’ll be fine,” he assured, though he didn’t know if he was lying. He turned slightly into Dean, putting on his most earnest face. He didn’t want Dean to worry about him. He touched his hand to Dean’s shoulder and said, “Thank you for the concern, but it’s unnecessary.”</p><p>In the lowlight, Dean’s eyes flashed curiously. He looked up at the house, lips pinched. “In that case, wanna make a pit stop before we get to the cemetery? I wanna check something out.”</p><p>“A pit—” Castiel began in question, but he didn’t get to finish it. Dean grabbed his hand and pulled him through the gate. He didn’t let go as they trudged up the hill. When they got closer to the house, Castiel twined their fingers together, making sure not to squeeze too hard. Try as he might to prevent it, his eyes kept straying to the manor’s boarded up windows and concave roof. The entire structure was a carcass.</p><p>Just as Dean promised, they didn’t go inside. He took them around back. The stable and carriage house, Dean’s old apartment with it, no longer stood. All that remained of either of them was the stone slab foundation of the carriage house. Castiel recalled the day the branches of the oak tree he’d once found refuge beneath were brought down by a storm. A large limb crashed into the structure, leaving nothing but ruin in its wake. The stable, on the other hand, had rotted and crumbled slowly over time, until it no longer stood.</p><p>The oak tree itself was still in place, but was spotted with decay. Its bark was stripped from parasites, holes drilled in it from birds. There wasn’t a single leaf on it. The gnarled roots were more exposed than they’d ever been, and he feared the tree would topple over if he gave it a hefty push.</p><p>Dean led him to the back of the property and through the trees. And Castiel couldn’t help but ask, “What happened to being in and out quickly?”</p><p>“Just wanna see something,” Dean said absently. He was looking around, waving the light to and fro, like he was trying to remember something. He tugged Castiel’s arm, starting and stopping and sometimes changing direction. After a few minutes, it became exceedingly clear what he was searching for—and Castiel kept his mouth shut. He didn’t want to go there. He didn’t want to see what it had become.</p><p>Though, eventually, Dean found his way back to the garden in the clearing. The low stone cropping he’d placed in a semi-circle around the area had been buried, or the stones had somehow been moved. Fallen leaves littered the ground, and the stream had dried up, but Castiel thought he could still smell petrichor tickling his nose. The bench was cracked and moss-covered. Spindles of dead ivy twirled around it like a cage. Castiel could feel his heart in his throat.</p><p>Dean’s hand slipped out of his. “There was a garden here.”</p><p>Castiel nodded, even though Dean was turned in the opposite direction. Voice thick, he said, “Yes.”</p><p>Dean looked around, forehead lined in intense thought. “I… built it for you.”</p><p>Jaw tight, eyes sad, Castiel nodded again.</p><p>This garden had been the nicest thing anyone had ever given him. He and Dean would waste hours in it together—Castiel reading while Dean slept despite the fact he should have been working, or the two of them talking, or just sitting in the silence, or making out. And then there were the times without Dean. After Dean. That’s what Castiel remembered most.</p><p>“I’d often sit out here after you’d…” <em>Left</em>. He fisted his hands. “When you were gone. No one else ever knew about this place. It was… peaceful.” Peaceful—until it wasn’t. Until it became clear that Dean was never coming back, that whatever taste of freedom, whatever dream, Castiel had was fleeting and futile. And he would sit in the garden to feel Dean’s presence, until even that faded. Until all he imagined when he looked up at the thick tree limbs was a body swinging from them. Until that thought became less shocking, less remorseful, more numbing than anything.</p><p>“Are you finished?” Castiel asked, hearing the curtness of his voice but not knowing how to stop it.</p><p>A muscle in Dean’s jaw jumped when he clamped it. He took another slow look around, but he nodded.</p><p>Castiel was wound so tightly, he was bound to snap. “Good,” he said. “Then let’s get to the intended purpose of this trip so we can leave.” He spun around, walking away from the garden as fast as he could without making it obvious. His shoulders were shrugged up to his ears, and he thought he could get away with blaming the tension on the cold.</p><p>He heard the forest floor rustle as Dean walked after him.</p><p>They wove through the woods, Castiel leading the way to the family cemetery. As they drew closer, something foul got caught in his nose. It was subtle at first—nothing but a faint, stale stench—but then it grew into the sickly-sweet smell of rot and decay.</p><p>Behind him, Dean let out a disgusted sound and breathed into the sleeve of his jacket. “You smell that? What the fuck is that?”</p><p>Castiel had a bad feeling that he shouldn’t be too keen to find out.</p><p>As they continued on, the stench became more powerful. In the beam of the flashlight Dean was swaying about, Castiel caught sight of the trees. Many of them looked like the oak on the lawn, bark graying, large hollows splitting them open. Others had fallen, laying still on the ground, moss and mushrooms blanketing them. The thicket at his feet was nothing more than sharp, spindly twigs, easily snapping whenever he brushed up against them.</p><p>Something cold was at Castiel’s back—icy fingers, not quite touching him. They hovered, a transparent shadow, and they’d reach him if he didn’t run. It was an old sensation, but it had been the first time he’d felt it since he was resurrected. He did his best to ignore it, to stow his fear. He wanted nothing more than to hold Dean’s hand again.</p><p>Through the trunks, he caught glimpses of the cemetery. The iron fencing that had been around it was gone—completely, he realized upon approach. It hadn’t fallen to the earth, been blown over by the wind or knocked down by an animal. It was just gone. The tombstones were cracked and crumbling, one of them having toppled over. Most were jagged and weather-worn, and the engravings had been scrubbed off over time. He squinted, and could barely make out the letters on his mother’s grave.</p><p>Next to it was Castiel’s grave marker. It was a simple thing, and he could see its faint etchings when Dean’s flashlight landed on it.</p><p>
  <em>Castiel Novak<br/>
</em>
  <em>September 1845 – November 1868</em>
</p><p>He couldn’t look at it for too long. His eyes dropped to the ground beneath the tombstone, finding nothing but insignificant dirt. No grass. No flowers. Not even fallen leaves.</p><p>He paused.</p><p>There should have been leaves. It was autumn.</p><p>“Dean,” he said, unable to look away from the grave. He held out his hand. “Give me the light.”</p><p>After a second, cold metal slapped against his palm. Castiel cast the light upward. All the trees were barren. All the trees were <em>dead</em>. It looked like they had been for years; they were just waiting for nature to knock them down. He paced closer, shining the light around the grave.</p><p>“There aren’t any weeds,” Dean said, and he must have known something was wrong, too.</p><p>The light snagged on something white sticking out of the dirt. Castiel walked over to it and crouched down. He swept the dirt away with his fingers, revealing the scattered remains of bone. A canine skull with small teeth. A fox. Tufts of hair were still stuck to the skeleton in some places.</p><p>He brought the beam on light back to his grave, inspecting the dirt. Beetles lay curled on the soil, worms unmoving.</p><p>“Son of a—<em>fuck</em>!”</p><p>Castiel whipped around. Dean had his phone out, flashlight shining from it. He was pointing it off to the side of the plot. Castiel’s eyes immediately tracked to the spot it was illuminating. A deer carcass was rotting between two trees, its stomach burst open, beady black eyes gone milky.</p><p>“What the fuck, Cas?” Dean shouted, voice echoing through the woods.</p><p>Castiel stood up slowly, breath labored. He didn’t have an answer.</p><p>“I mean, I’m not buried where I’m supposed to be, and you’re—” Dean started walking forward, then stopped abruptly before he stepped foot in the cemetery. Castiel tried to look at him, but the silver burst of light in front of Dean’s face blinded him. Voice laced with alarm, Dean told him, “Get the hell away from there before you drop dead, too!”</p><p>Castiel’s eyes fell back to his tombstone. “I think it’s a little late for that.” He walked closer, unsure of what he was looking for. With every step he took, the dark fingers at his back seemed to move closer instead of further away.</p><p>“I didn’t assume I’d have a Christian burial,” he pondered. “If scripture is believed, suicide is a sin. But this seems excessive.”</p><p>Dean remained in place. He huffed. “Great! Let’s have a theological debate! That’ll solve it!”</p><p>Castiel ignored him. If Dean thought him to be joking, he was wrong. He walked around to the other side of his tombstone. There was something roughly chiseled into the back—a symbol. It was faded from time and the elements, but it was large enough that it was still mostly intact. Castiel tilted his head to the side. It was familiar.</p><p>“Dean, look,” he said urgently.</p><p>For a long few seconds, Dean didn’t move. Then, he gave an exaggerated whimpering noise and stepped forward. He didn’t appear to immediately die, which Castiel was grateful for, but he was a bit too occupied with the symbol to notice.</p><p>Dean came to his side, lowering the light from his phone.</p><p>“The fuck?” he breathed out.</p><p>“I’ve seen that symbol before,” Castiel recalled. “There was a medium. She came to the manor once to hold a séance. She drew that on the table in chalk.”</p><p>Dean’s eyes moved around in thought, lips parting. He said, “Rowena.”</p><p>Castiel nodded. But it didn’t make sense. What did Rowena have to do with any of this?</p><p>“Okay, so what does it mean?” Dean asked.</p><p>Castiel scoffed. “I don’t know. You were always the superstitious one.”</p><p>Dean’s head snapped toward him. “I was?” Castiel dipped his head to the side in a nod. Dean’s eyes began moving again, almost as if he was trying to remember. Castiel waited, but all Dean did was let out a frustrated groan and turn away.</p><p>“Fuck, there’s something…” He spun back around to face Castiel, throwing out his arms and letting them fall back to his sides. “It’s like—you know when there’s a word on the tip of your tongue but you can’t remember it for the life of you?”</p><p>Castiel considered it for a moment, and shook his head. “No, I’m very proficient with words.”</p><p>Dean rolled his eyes, letting out another grunting sound. “Okay, J.R.R. Tolkien. Good for you.” Castiel didn’t think it was relevant to point out that he didn’t know who that was. Anyway, Dean kept speaking. “Point is… There’s something I’m forgetting.”</p><p>Castiel’s brow collapsed. “What?”</p><p>Dean huffed. “I dunno, Cas. That’s why I said I’m forgetting it.” Castiel pressed his lips together. He looked back at the symbol. Dean let out a loud, aggravated sound. “This is gonna drive me nuts!”</p><p>Castiel could feel the phantom icy touch on the back of his neck now. His hair raised, skin prickled. Lead sat heavily in his gut. “I don’t want to be here,” he told Dean.</p><p>Dean stood up a little straighter, blinking. He nodded. “Okay,” he said, seeming to agree. He paced back over, holding up his phone again. He snapped a photograph of the symbol, then pocketed the device. “Let’s get out of here,” he said, sniffing in the increasingly frigid air.</p><p>Grateful, Castiel slipped his hand back into Dean’s. There was some warmth to be found there. Dean gave his fingers a quick squeeze, and they started away from the cemetery. When some distance was put between them, Castiel glanced back. He could still see the outlines of the tombstones between the trees. Luckily, the shadow at his back was left behind.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>1867</strong>
</p><p>“What about this one?” Chuck exclaimed. “I recognize her!”</p><p>Castiel had gotten distracted by the giant portrait on the wall behind his father’s desk. He wasn’t exactly sure what it was meant to depict. It seemed to be a swirling mass of different shades of black. There were shapes smudged into it, but he couldn’t for the life of him determine what they were. The painting was giant, swallowing up half the wall of Chuck’s study. It seemed a bit excessive, but, then again, Castiel had never been one for Impressionism.</p><p>His eyes flickered downward at the sound of his father’s voice. A pile of leather portfolios, neatly stacked papers, and bound manuscripts were on either side of the desk. In the center, at least a dozen photographs were fanned out in front of him. They were all women—most Castiel knew, others from Boston or Providence that he’d only met in passing, and two or three he didn’t know at all.</p><p>Castiel had been woken up far earlier than necessary for this. He hadn’t even had coffee yet. Zachariah knocked on his door when the sun was still an abstract line on the horizon, and he was told to dress and promptly head to his father’s study. Castiel couldn’t help but think he was being squeezed in before Chuck’s day became busy—and he’d been right. In a matter of hours, Chuck would be on a train headed God-knows-where, but before he left, he was apparently hell-bent on finding Castiel a bride. He was even wearing his glasses, which meant this was deemed serious business.</p><p>Currently, he was holding up a photograph of a severe-looking woman who was named Adina, if Castiel remembered correctly. Where Chuck had acquired all these photographs, he had no idea. And he assumed this was highly irregular. But he’d learned not to ask questions.</p><p>Zachariah had been standing behind Chuck’s leather chair the entire time, as though the two were consulting one another and Castiel was there simply to take notes. The butler leaned in, looking at the photo. “She’s been promised to Mr. Daniel Black, sir.”</p><p>Chuck scrunched his nose, his glasses moving with it. “Really?” he said, voice going up an octave. “Well, okay, that’s… Good for them. Daniel’s the one with the big forehead, right?”</p><p>Castiel squinted in question.</p><p>Zachariah hummed in thought. “I suppose it is rather… shall we say, <em>large</em> in proportion to the rest of his face.”</p><p>“Huh. Okay, then.” He set the picture down in what he was calling the <em>no </em>pile. “Send the Blacks a gift to congratulate them on the happy couple.”</p><p>“Consider it done.”</p><p>Slouching in his chair across the desk, Castiel wondered if he was truly needed for this or if his father and Zachariah could handle it on their own.</p><p>Chuck inspected the other photographs, picking one or two up at random. He blew out his cheeks. He looked up at Castiel from the top of his glasses. “What do you think? Any winners?”</p><p>He probably wouldn’t be permitted to leave until he at least gave some semblance of an opinion. He leaned forward, scanning the photographs without truly taking in any of them. It felt like a highly strange way to choose a future spouse, and he wondered if he could get away with saying as such. He assumed not. But he had to be careful about what he actually did say for fear of it being taken as a decision.</p><p>His eyes flickered to the manuscripts sitting on his father’s desk. Perhaps, with a little finesse, he could steer the conversation away from the women altogether.</p><p>“Father, I’ve… been thinking,” he said.</p><p>Chuck leaned back in his chair, ripping off his glasses with interest. “Oh. Good. Great! I’m excited to hear it.”</p><p>Castiel tried for a smile. In reality, he only thinned his lips. “I was wondering… while you’re away on business,” he began slowly, “if, instead of focusing on finding a bride, I might be given tasks to complete for the publishing firm.”</p><p>Silence hung. Chuck’s face slackened, the twinkle in his eyes dulling. Next to him, Zachariah had gone rigid. Castiel’s gut swam.</p><p>Sighing loudly, Chuck said, “No, come on—we’ve talked about this.” His tone was airy, but in a forced way. Chilled.</p><p>Maybe there was still an opportunity to convince him.</p><p>“I’ve had a few ideas,” Castiel told him, hoping it would pique his father’s interest. It wasn’t as though he were desperate to begin working at the firm, but he certainly gave it more thought than marriage. Besides, he might find himself enjoying the work, if given the opportunity to reach the right people. “About new material to publish. I read an interesting article the other day reporting that Karl Marx has been working on a new manuscript. His ideas are contemporary, and they have an audience. We may wish to pursue others like it—”</p><p>“Enough!”</p><p>Castiel sat up straighter. He hadn’t been expecting such a reaction—one of authority, finality. Perhaps that was his mistake.</p><p>Chuck withered slightly, breathing out. His voice was kinder but still firm when he said, “Look, Castiel. I know you’re eager, but you should only focus on one thing right now, and that’s finding a wife.”</p><p>Castiel didn’t understand why he couldn’t do both. Wouldn’t he look more appealing to a match if he already had a career in place, anyway? He didn’t know much about women, but he suspected they weren’t looking for someone who wandered the halls day in and day out. At least a career would give him something to occupy his time.</p><p>“Trust me,” Chuck said, leaning in. “I’m making it easy on you. Plus, think of finding a wife as helping out the firm! I mean, you’re gonna need a son to take it over from you one day, right?”</p><p>He supposed that was true. The firm was a family business. It was meant to remain in the family, and Anna’s children would one day work for their father’s business.</p><p>Castiel nodded dutifully.</p><p>“So, focus on that. And then,” Chuck made a fluttering motion with his hand, “we can talk about whatever ideas you want to bring to the table. Okay?”</p><p>It sounded more like a platitude than a promise, but maybe his father was right to do it. After all, Castiel hadn’t any firsthand experience in the industry. His father knew more about what kinds of books people wanted to read. And he’d certainly had more experience with building a household.</p><p>His eyes flashed back down to the photographs, and he considered picking one at random. All he was doing at this point was prolonging the inevitable. He began to lift his hand from his lap. Something stopped him, but he couldn’t say what.</p><p>“So!” Chuck said, cheerful demeanor returned. He gathered up the photographs into a messy stack, picked them up, and offered them to Castiel. “Why don’t you take another look at these and we’ll talk about it when I get back?”</p><p>Castiel looked at the pile hesitantly.</p><p>His father’s voice darkened only slightly again: “I want <em>you</em> to pick, son. It’s the only way you’ll be happy.”</p><p>He bit his tongue, lest it began speaking his mind without his authorization. He reached forward and took the photographs from his father. He placed them inside the breast pocket of his blazer.</p><p>Chuck clapped his hands together loudly. “Great! I’ll see you in a few days.”</p><p>Castiel stood up, turning and pacing toward the engraved set of doors that led to the hallway. Behind him, he heard Zachariah ask Chuck if he needed anything else, but Castiel hardly heard the reply. The photographs felt like a weight against his chest. It made it difficult to breathe. He needed air.</p><p>He pulled open the doors, moving into the corridor as quickly as he could without making it look like he was running. He was halfway down the hall when he heard the doors open and close again. Then, Zachariah’s voice called, “Oh, Castiel?”</p><p>Castiel stopped walking abruptly. He realized his hands were in tight fists at his sides. His nails bit into his palm. After taking a moment to collect himself, he looked around.</p><p>Zachariah was pacing in his direction, a smile fixed on his round cheeks. “Make sure you actually look through those, would you? It’ll make everyone a lot happier.”</p><p>Castiel narrowed his eyes, anger spiking in his chest. “Of course,” he snapped. Usually, he could restrain himself, but he didn’t want to anymore. “Anything for <em>your</em> happiness.”</p><p>Before Zachariah could respond, Castiel turned and exited the corridor.</p><p>His mind was still reeling by the time he’d gone through the backdoor into the garden. There was still a prickling in the air from winter’s dying breaths, but spring would soon be in bloom. The grass beneath his shoes was a vibrant green. Buds were poking out from the spindly tree branches, and though flowers had yet to unfurl, fresh stocks sprouted from the earth to greet the day.</p><p>Castiel closed his eyes, listening to the sounds of the world awakening, centering himself. Birdsong filled his ears, followed by the yapping of the dogs. There was the clop of horse hooves, the laughter of the men in the stables beginning their day. He exhaled, opening his eyes into it.</p><p>The forest at the back of the property was a gray wall of trunks, the mountain range stretching up in the far distance beyond. Castiel had half a mind to walk into the woods, to find the spot Dean had been working on for him. He wasn’t certain he would be able to find it blindly, but he could certainly try. And if he missed it, perhaps he’d keep walking. To the mountain. Over the mountain. To whatever lay beyond.</p><p>He inhaled once more and let the feeling pass. Each time he did that, it was becoming more difficult. What was once an occasional needle prick in his heart had turned into an ache, then spread to his chest, his ribcage, up into his throat. Recently, he could feel it infesting his lips, wrapping around him, pushing out of his spine, his hands and feet, winding upward into the air and moving him like a puppet on strings. And just beneath it, there was another ache. Something more profound, dull instead of sharp; something hollow. It was always a step behind him, following him like his own shadow. It raised the hairs on the back of his neck and told him to run. <em>Run now. Run before it catches up and swallows you whole.</em></p><p>One day, it would catch up.</p><p>He walked away from it, meaning to head for the tree at the back of the property. He would tuck himself into its roots, put the bark to his back, ensure nothing could find him. Not his father, not Zachariah, not even his shadow.</p><p>But, as he drew closer, the spot didn’t appear as inviting as it once did. It was small and cramped, and he wondered if there was anywhere in the whole world where he could be safe.</p><p>His eyes fell on the carriage house, on the windows of the apartment above. The glass reflected the fluffy clouds floating in the blue sky overhead. He considered Dean may still be there. Castiel hadn’t seen him on the grounds.</p><p>He found himself staring at the apartment’s windows, squinting to catch any glimpse of movement inside, for much longer than he’d intended. After some deliberation, he headed in that direction—past the tree, across the gravel path, up the stairs. The wood whined under his weight. With every step upward, he considered more and more that this was a bad idea. And he didn’t know why. Dean was his friend.</p><p>Except, they’d only ever run into each other on the grounds or within the house. As much as he often wanted to, Castiel had never sought Dean out. And Dean had certainly never come looking for him. Perhaps this was untoward.</p><p>By the time he reached the top of the flight, he hoped Dean wasn’t inside after all.</p><p>He raised his fist, hovering near the wood. He glanced back at the oak tree. Those gnarled roots had once offered him such security.</p><p>Swallowing his doubt, he knocked. “Um… Dean?” he called. “It’s me. Are you…?”</p><p>From inside, Dean’s distant voice came: “Cas? Come on in. It’s open.”</p><p>Castiel reached for the doorknob, paused, and quickly ran his hands through his hair, attempting to tame it. It was probably useless. He shouldn’t have even gone outside where actual people could see him.</p><p>He opened the door and stepped inside. Dean was on the opposite end of the apartment, crouched in front of the potbelly stove. The hatch was open, and he was shoveling ash and coals into a bucket. He was barefoot, standing on his toes, his back to Castiel. There was a constellation of freckles on his bare shoulders. They varied in color—some dark against winter-pale skin, some light and nearly invisible to the naked eye. They moved down his spine, rolling along the shifting and flowing muscles, and dipped beneath the waistband of Dean’s trousers.</p><p>Castiel’s hand gripped the knob tighter.</p><p>He’d been worried about looking disheveled just moments ago, and there was Dean—half-naked. Dean began to look over his shoulder, and Castiel instantly looked away to preserve Dean’s privacy.</p><p>“You’re—” he started to say. The words got clogged in his throat. “I didn’t expect—I can come back if…”</p><p>Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Dean stand up and turn toward him. His feet barely made a sound and he crossed the room—and for a heart-stopping moment, Castiel thought he was coming to him.</p><p>“It’s fine. What’s up?” Dean asked, moving to the bed.</p><p>The more Castiel tried not to look, the more his eyes were drawn to Dean. He could hardly blink. Every muscle in his face felt paralyzed, especially when his vision snagged on the dark ink on Dean’s chest. A peculiar geometric shape, a kind of star inside a circle. It rested over Dean’s heart.</p><p>“I… I wasn’t aware you had a tattoo.” Castiel wasn’t certain why he’d said that. It was unnecessary. But he wanted to ask more. When had Dean gotten it? Why? What did it mean? What had possessed him to brand himself in such a way? Had it something to do with his days as a soldier? Castiel wanted to ask anything and everything, but it wouldn’t be appropriate.</p><p>“Oh, uh—yeah,” Dean answered. He picked up the shirt hanging off the edge of his bed and slipped into it, covering his torso and buttoning it up one by one. It seemed to take forever. Did it always take people so long to button a shirt?</p><p>Dean continued to talk as he dressed. “Kind of a family thing.”</p><p>Castiel nodded, and he thought it would be appropriate to look at Dean now that he was mostly dressed. “Of course.”</p><p>“So, this a social call or you here for a reason?” Dean asked, shoving the tails of his shirt into his trousers.</p><p>Castiel let go of the doorknob, the iron having left a red indentation on his palm. He’d honestly forgotten why he’d come in the first place, if there was even a reason. That was until his faculties returned. He remembered the photographs in the pocket against his chest. It felt more like an excuse than a reason, per se.</p><p>But, now that he was there, he found it difficult to call this visit anything but social. He glanced around the apartment. It was the first time he’d ever been inside, especially since Dean had moved in. It was an austere room, but there were touches of Dean all around: the slept in, haphazardly made bed, the loaf of bread and serrated knife on the table, the clothes hanging off the back of the wooden chair, the candles with dripping wax hardened along their edges. There was a ceramic bowl on top of the dresser, appearing to be full of dried flowers and herbs, and Castiel assumed it was some kind of potpourri. It was odd. He wouldn’t have expected such a thing from Dean, but he supposed living so close to the stables couldn’t have smelled very good.</p><p>“No. This visit is pointless,” he said, drifting toward the dresser. Dean sat on the edge of his bed and picked up one of the boots sprawled on the floor.</p><p>Dean gave a short laugh as he pulled on the boot. “Okay, weirdo.”</p><p>Castiel looked into the mixture of herbs, picking one up at random. The cracked yellow petal nearly disintegrated to the touch. He dropped it back down, noticing the course salt sitting at the bottom of the bowl. His eyes strayed away, toward the window. Outside, Garth was leading a horse out of the stable.</p><p>Behind him, Dean continued to dress. The rustling of the sheets as he shifted reached Castiel’s ears, and it all felt very common suddenly. Safe. There was a warmth to the sounds, and to Dean’s company. To simply exist in the same place at the same moment.</p><p>“I was wondering if you’d like to accompany me somewhere tonight.” It didn’t feel so difficult to ask that anymore. He didn’t know why he’d been so nervous. Dean was his friend.</p><p>Dean was finishing lacing up his boots. He looked up. “What, like the theater?”</p><p>Castiel furrowed his brow, turning his attention more fully to Dean. “No.”</p><p>Did Dean <em>want</em> to go to the theater? Castiel considered it for a moment, but then Dean hopped off the bed, fully dressed now. Belatedly, Castiel realized he’d been joking. Dean asked, “What’d you have in mind?”</p><p>His thoughts drifted back to the woods, to the place Dean had taken him right before winter’s snows began in earnest. “Well, I hoped to go to the garden you’re so intent on keeping secret—”</p><p>Dean laughed, smile bright. He crossed to the table and plucked up his jacket from the chair. “Nice try. You know the rules: not till it’s done.”</p><p>Castiel rolled his eyes petulantly. He didn’t see what the big deal was. But he’d respect Dean’s wishes.</p><p>“Fine. Then I have no suggestion.” Only one: “Just… anywhere off the grounds.”</p><p>Dean straightened out the collar of his jacket, pulling a thoughtful expression. “Alright,” he said. “I think I know a place. Benny told me about a spot with some good views. Been meaning to check it out.”</p><p>Castiel raised his brows, intrigued. “Where?”</p><p>Dean only grinned wider. “It’s a secret.”</p><p>Castiel wondered if Dean was the most intolerable person he’d ever met. And then Dean said, “So? I’ll come get you after dark?” And Castiel couldn’t help the smile that threatened his cheeks.</p><p>“Yes,” he said, chest suddenly too tight. He supposed it was the anticipation, which was ridiculous because he was free to leave the grounds whenever he damn well pleased. But there was something thrilling about sneaking away—with Dean.</p><p>There was something thrilling about Dean.</p><p>“Okay, great!” Dean said. “Then, I guess I should get some work done beforehand.”</p><p>Realization dawned on Castiel. It wasn’t nighttime yet. He had to wait an entire day before their excursion. And Dean actually had a career. “Of course.”</p><p>He followed Dean to the door, taking one last glance around the apartment as he did. It would be unlikely he’d be inside again, and something in him wanted to commit the place to memory. His attention snagged on a smudge of soot just beneath the windowsill. On second glance, there was a shape to it—some strange design, different from Dean’s tattoo. It seemed as if it’d been drawn onto the walls with a piece of coal. He paused, squinting at the symbol from across the room.</p><p>There was another beneath the second window.</p><p>“So, you got any other plans today?” Dean asked conversationally, opening the door.</p><p>Castiel blinked back to him quickly, feeling guilty for some reason. “No,” he answered before Dean’s question fully processed. And then, “I… My day will be completely uneventful.”</p><p>“Lucky bastard,” Dean grumbled. Castiel followed him through the threshold. As he did, something told him to look up. In the top corner of the doorframe, there was another symbol, identical to the others. He wondered if those were “family things” as well.</p><p>The door swung closed behind them. Dean jounced down the stairs, and Castiel followed after him, head tumbling with questions that sat poised on his tongue. Dean waved him off, and then headed to some other part of the property. Castiel watched him, wondering after Dean and all his secrets.</p><p>The distant sound of hooves on the drive reached his ears. It was accompanied by the rhythmic squeaking of wheels on rusted metal fittings.</p><p>They had company. Castiel hadn’t been expecting company. He hadn’t even eaten breakfast yet. Maybe this day would be more eventful than he’d thought.</p><p>Perplexed, he walked down the gravel path leading from the carriage house and around the side of the manor to the drive.</p><p>A carriage pulled up to the front, and the driver jumped down to open the door. A man in a top hat unfolded himself from inside. Castiel tilted his head to the side in question, recognizing the man as Peter Allen. He was a few years Castiel’s senior, and he’d taken over his father’s position at the Novak Publishing Firm after the man passed away last spring. Castiel hadn’t seen very much of Peter since, as he was usually away on business dealing with his father’s old accounts.</p><p>Peter stuck his head back into the carriage to speak to someone, and then he turned to enter the house. It wasn’t unheard of for Castiel’s father to have business meetings at home, but it usually didn’t happen. Well, <em>usually</em>, Chuck wasn’t home long enough for that. It must have been unplanned, especially if someone was left behind to wait in the carriage. And that someone could only be Peter’s sister.</p><p>Castiel walked up to the carriage, where the driver was still standing next to the door. The driver gave him a quick, shallow bow and opened up the carriage. Castiel looked inside, hoping he wasn’t intruding. “Miss Allen?”</p><p>Daphne drew her attention away from the opposite window, expression alert, then softening. “Oh. Hello, Mr. Novak. I didn’t expect to see you.”</p><p>He pulled his brows together, wanting to point out that this was his house. Where else would he be? “I could say the same.”</p><p>She waved her hand. “My brother has business with your father.” She gave a quick, forced chuckle, green eyes turned downward. “It’s all he does anymore. I barely see him. We’re supposed to be on our way to Boston to visit our cousin.”</p><p>Castiel gave her sympathetic eyes. It was difficult, he knew, not to see much of one’s sibling. He thought of Anna, of her house in Philadelphia. He’d visited her once since she moved there last summer, and she wrote him recently of her plan to come home for Christmas. It wasn’t enough. He missed his sister.</p><p>“I’m sure he won’t be long,” he said, mostly because he didn’t know what else to say. He’d hoped that it would cheer her, but she only looked down at her lap, smiling politely but sadly.</p><p>“Well, I’m sure you know how long these affairs last better than I do,” she said.</p><p>He nodded, even though she gave him too much credit in knowledge of the business. He wondered if he should say goodbye or keep her company. Was it rude to leave? It would nag at his conscience, but he wasn’t sure how to occupy her. His eyes darted around. “Would you…” She looked back up at him in question. “Like to take a walk?” he finished uncertainly.</p><p>Her smile turned a little more genuine. “That would be nice.”</p><p>He stepped back, allowing her out of the carriage. He took her hand, helping her jump out, her boots crunching on the gravel. She nodded to her driver before hooking her arm into Castiel’s. They walked across the drive, toward the stone walkway that led to the front garden.</p><p>She stayed quiet for a long time, and Castiel couldn’t help but feel stiff and awkward. He wasn’t close to Daphne. She was a nice girl, and he thought she was a few years his junior. He didn’t know how many years. Maybe two? He guessed it didn’t matter. But, if he didn’t know such basic information, he certainly didn’t know what to talk about with her.</p><p>Perhaps church? Every time he accompanied his father to Sunday Mass, Daphne was there. Well, everyone was there, but Daphne usually sat in the front pew. She seemed devout. Castiel wasn’t, not in his heart. Maybe church wasn’t a good topic…</p><p>“So,” she said, knocking him out of his thoughts. And thank God she had been the one to pick a topic. “Do you do much work for the firm now that you’ve graduated?”</p><p>On second thought, maybe he wasn’t grateful for the subject. He tried not to sigh—and failed. “No. I’ve offered, especially since I’m supposed to run it one day. But… my father wants me to focus on finding a wife first.”</p><p>“What?” she said, seeming thrown.</p><p>He rolled his eyes. “I know, it’s ridiculous.”</p><p>“Wouldn’t you have better luck finding a wife while you have a career?” She made a noise, obviously hearing her own words. “Not that you need luck,” she quickly amended.</p><p>“It’s fine,” he intoned. “And, you’re right. I’ve argued that same point. Multiple times.” He was happy that at least <em>someone</em> agreed with him.</p><p>“Well, hopefully you’ll have a wife and a career soon. God willing.”</p><p>It was a nice sentiment—one he wholeheartedly rejected. He didn’t tell her that.</p><p>They fell quiet again as they started their second turn around the garden. He wondered if she was fishing for something else to say, too. He was probably being impolite, but he didn’t know what to ask her. He wasn’t good at speaking to women… or anyone else.</p><p>“The grounds here really are beautiful,” she mused.</p><p>“Yes,” he said, looking around. He bit back a warm smile at the thought of Dean. “We have an excellent groundskeeper.”</p><p>“Give him my compliments,” she said. “All of this must be so much work. The size of this place…” She gave a light, thoughtful scoff. “I can’t imagine living in a place this big.”</p><p>He nodded, thinning his lips, trying to prevent himself from saying something cynical. Something like, the manor may look spacious, but really it was confining.</p><p>He could feel her eyes on him. She turned her head, allowing him to guide her along the path. “Does it ever get… boring?” she asked.</p><p>He looked at her, not knowing what she meant. “Boring?”</p><p>She merely shrugged. He considered the question, guessed she had a point. He’d just told her he didn’t have a wife or a job… but “boring” wasn’t the right word. He didn’t know what the correct word was. Most of the time, he couldn’t stand being in the house. Except when Dean was around.</p><p>Really, he didn’t care about where they were when Dean was around. Dean brightened any setting.</p><p>“I… Yes,” he said, for lack of a better word.</p><p>“Well, maybe you should find something to do before you set out at the firm,” she suggested. He wondered why she cared. She stopped quickly, turning into him, face alight. “Oh! You should come to the church group meetings. We could use more philanthropists.”</p><p>Castiel opened and closed his mouth a few times, hoping he didn’t look too stunned. He didn’t want to do that. His father already gave the church enough money, and there were other causes that Castiel valued more. He just didn’t know what excuse to give her. “Thank you,” he said. “I’ll… consider it.” He wouldn’t. Still, her mood was improved. “But don’t be concerned about me. I’m fine.”</p><p>Daphne shook her head, her cropped, wavy hair bouncing slightly. “I know,” she said, taking her arm out of his and turning to him more fully. “But I’d hate to see you unhappy.”</p><p>He <em>really</em> didn’t know why that was her concern. His head cocked off-center, regarding her. He couldn’t help but think that Dean would call her too nice for her own good.</p><p>From the driveway, Peter’s voice rang out. “Daphne!”</p><p>They both looked over. Peter waved to Castiel. Castiel waved back politely. He didn’t know him any better than he knew Daphne.</p><p>“I better go,” Daphne said, and Castiel looked back to her. “Thanks. For helping me pass the time.” She gave him a quick courtesy as a farewell. He bowed his head, mustering a well-mannered smile.</p><p>Daphne picked up the ends of her skirt and strolled back to the carriage.</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p> </p><p>Castiel stood in front of the mirror in his bedroom, ascetic reflection staring back at him. The house was quiet, all the candles blown out in their sconces and chandeliers, fragrant curls of smoke long since dissipated into the air. He was meant to be asleep. He should have been, in fact, considering how early he’d been woken up. He touched the dark circles under his eyes, hoping they weren’t too pronounced. He didn’t want Dean to think he’d rather be asleep, especially considering the excitement Castiel felt all day at the prospect of leaving the grounds with him again.</p><p>There was a clunking sound at the window, and at first Castiel didn’t know what it was. He started, thinking it came from within the house—that someone was awake, after all. But then it happened again, and it was <em>definitely</em> coming from the window.</p><p>Castiel looked over, frowning. Outside, the budding branches on the tree were silhouettes against the night. Hesitantly, he paced across the room, eyes fixed on the glass. In it, his reflection was transparent, the mere impression of a shadow.</p><p>Something hit up against the glass, making the same sound and before. Castiel’s heart leapt, and he jumped back before realizing it’d been a pebble.</p><p>It was <em>Dean</em>. It had to be. No one else would risk property damage.</p><p>Allowing himself a smile before containing himself, Castiel moved to the balcony doors. He yanked them open, stepping outside. Below, Dean was reeling his arm back, ready to throw another pebble from the pile held aloft in his opposite hand. He dropped his arm at the sight of Castiel.</p><p>“’Bout time,” Dean called up to him, voice a whisper-shout as to not be overheard by the moon and all the sleeping creatures beneath it. “I was about to go find a bigger rock.”</p><p>He was in a different shirt than the one he’d worn that day, Castiel realized when he squinted. It appeared cleaner. The other had likely gotten soiled from a day of work.</p><p>“You ready to go or what?”</p><p>Castiel nodded. “I’ll be right down.”</p><p>He moved back inside, closing the doors behind him. Giddy anticipation clamored in his gut while he threw on his overcoat and left the room. He didn’t meet anyone in the hallway of the upstairs east wing, and he hadn’t expected to. Apart from the maids coming to clean, hardly anyone broached that part of the house but him. It had always been like that. He’d spent his whole life walking up and down that corridor. He sometimes felt as if he were a fixed point within it, as much as the stand against the wall, the hung portraits lining it, the closed doors along the way. It was hard to imagine that ever changing; easy to think that some piece of him would remain long after he was gone, frozen in time.</p><p>He couldn’t imagine anything worse.</p><p>The staircase and foyer were vacant when he reached it, and he quickly and quietly hustled down the steps, headed for the front door. Dean was waiting for him on the other side of it when Castiel squeezed through. Just as last time, they moved down the drive and hopped the fence; and, when Castiel’s feet hit the ground on the other side of the gate, he thought the earth felt different beneath his shoes. There was an energy thrumming under the surface, ready to carry him on to parts unknown.</p><p>“Come with me,” Dean said, turning, but Castiel would have followed him, anyway, without a single word.</p><p>They crossed the road, headed into the tree line. Castiel didn’t expect to hear the sudden snorting of a horse. The animal was reined to a low hanging tree limb just inside the woods. Dean gave a laugh, throwing out his arms. “There she is! Knew Garth’d come through.” He walked up to the mare, running his palm down her neck.</p><p>Castiel’s curiosity tapped relentlessly at the forefront of his mind, but it was mixed with a needling anxiety at Dean’s words. “You told Garth we were leaving?”</p><p>“Huh? Oh, uh… No.” Dean looked around at him. “Don’t worry. Told him I was sneaking out to…” He paused, eyes shifty, and Castiel had the strange feeling that, if it wasn’t so dark, he’d see Dean blushing.</p><p>“To?” Castiel prompted.</p><p>Dean rubbed at the back of his neck. “Meet a girl.”</p><p>Of course. Castiel nodded, suddenly grateful for the darkness. He hoped Dean didn’t hear the way he swallowed. It was a senseless reaction to a lie—but he couldn’t help but wonder what truth was in it. If Dean had used that excuse before, truthfully, and it was something of a repeated occurrence. Castiel didn’t ask. It was none of his concern.</p><p>“Then, I’d hate to keep you from her,” he deadpanned.</p><p>Dean scoffed out a laugh. “Shut up. C’mon, get on.”</p><p>Dean swung into the saddle first, and for the first time, Castiel realized there was only one horse. He hadn’t shared a saddle since he was a child, when he was first learning to ride and Anna had seated him in front of her, tutoring him on the proper way to use the reins. They’d both been so small then, hardly a burden on the animal. Two grown men was a different story.</p><p>Two grown men in a single saddle. Dean’s back pressed against Castiel’s chest. Castiel’s hands gripping Dean’s waist. Their thighs thrust together.</p><p>He swallowed again.</p><p>“Um… Okay,” he said, and he climbed up. It was awkward to do with Dean already astride, and the dip in the saddle made him slide even closer against Dean’s back than he’d anticipated. It was more uncomfortable than anything else, and Castiel didn’t want to move around too much to fix his position. His fists were held tightly, eyes searching unsurely for an appropriate place to hold on to Dean. After some deliberation, he decided to place them on Dean’s arms, right at the joint of his shoulders.</p><p>As Dean tugged on the reins, his muscles shifted under Castiel’s touch. The horse started forward, back out to the road. Castiel’s eyes were on the back of Dean’s head, taking in the swirl of hair at the back of his scalp, tracing the way his ears pointed slightly. His arms were firm, shirt crisp and clean—and it smelled nice. Dean smelled nice. Castiel couldn’t put a name to the scent, but his mind conjured up the image of freshly turned soil and leather work gloves. Perhaps that was just his imagination. He pictured Dean working in the sun, sweat on his brow, freckles darkening on his cheeks, green eyes swimming with golden flecks.</p><p>“Shame we didn’t have two horses,” Dean said, and it took a second to process in Castiel’s mind. Disappointment curled low in his gut until Dean went on: “We coulda raced. I’d kick your ass.”</p><p>Castiel shook his head, aware that Dean couldn’t see it. “Perhaps another time.”</p><p>“Uh-huh,” Dean droned. “You’re just worried ‘cause you know it’s true.” He turned his head to give Castiel a haughty grin, but he must have misjudged how close their faces were to each other. Their noses nearly brushed. Dean’s eyes widened slightly before flashing downward to a point on the lower half of Castiel’s face. Castiel froze. When Dean exhaled, his breath skirted across Castiel’s cheeks. There was a phantom pressure on Castiel’s lips.</p><p>Dean turned back to face the front, clearing his throat. Castiel’s fingers were holding Dean’s shoulders even tighter than before. Embarrassedly, he loosened his grip.</p><p>Voice somewhat stilted, Dean said, “Reminds of the time…” He launched into a story about the time he and Sam raced horses against two other boys in Illinois. They’d somehow conned the boys into putting money on it, and won easily. It eventually turned into another story about Dean’s days in the army, when he and some other soldiers helped a man who’d been wrongly accused of horse theft in Virginia. And that spiraled into other tales of mischief and heroics that Dean would never admit were admirable.</p><p>It eased whatever awkwardness had lingered in the air. Castiel hung on his every word, but found he could hardly recall anything Dean was saying. It didn’t matter much. Dean was simply talking to pass the time, and Castiel was content to listen. Dean’s voice rumbled through his body as he spoke, vibrating against Castiel’s chest. Castiel closed his eyes, letting the rhythm lull him. He really was quite tired, and Dean’s body was warm, tucked against Castiel in a way that fit perfectly. Castiel wanted to hook his chin over Dean’s shoulder and drift off to sleep.</p><p>“We should be coming up on the place soon,” Dean said, and Castiel blinked his eyes open rapidly, shaking the sleep off. He realized they were in the woods again, their horse trudging up an incline on a forest path. Castiel’s hands had somehow found their way to Dean’s hips.</p><p>Before long, Dean pulled the horse off the trail, muttering to himself about “thinking” they were “in the right place.” The right place seemed to be a rocky outcropping on the side of the mountain. Castiel peered through the trees, taking in the moonlit valley that stretched beyond. In the distance, the orange glow of a town flickered insignificantly within the crook of the valley.</p><p>While Dean tied the horse up to a tree, Castiel paced to the cliff, the soft ground under him giving way to the rounded, cracked boulders jutting from the earth. Small weeds sprung out from the crevices, the first signs of nature awakening against the chilled nights and rainy days. Without the tree trunks blocking his view, Castiel was able to take in the slope of the valley, the peaks of the mountains across the way. The Connecticut River flowed, current twinkling silver, down below. He tilted forward, eyes cast downward. It was a long, long way to fall.</p><p>The crunch of Dean’s boots sounded behind him, followed by a low whistle. Dean said, “Benny wasn’t kidding about the views.”</p><p>Castiel looked over his shoulder at Dean, whose eyes glistened in the night’s low light. He nodded, unable to speak.</p><p>“Oh! Hang on. Almost forgot—” Dean said suddenly. He spun around on his heels and headed back to the horse. Castiel watched him open the saddle bag and pull out a glass bottle of dark liquor. “Ain’t a party without this,” Dean said victoriously. He brought the bottle back, grin slanted in a way Castiel knew spelled trouble. He shook the bottle, causing the liquid inside to slosh audibly, and held it out in offering. “Take a swig.”</p><p>Castiel eyed him suspiciously. “Where’s it from?” The bottle was plain and without a label. He wondered if Dean had stolen in from the manor.</p><p>“Just try it,” Dean huffed.</p><p>Deciding to trust him, Castiel took the bottle and pulled out the cork. He kept contact with the mischievous glint in Dean’s eyes and he knocked back a gulp. And he immediately wanted to sputter it back up. It was whiskey, undoubtedly, but it was the strongest whiskey he’d ever tasted. It burned on the way down his throat, and continued to burn long after it should have.</p><p>“What the hell is that?” Castiel coughed.</p><p>Dean was laughing. “Homemade!” he exclaimed proudly. He snatched the bottle from Castiel’s grip and took a drink without flinching. His voice was a little thicker when he added, “Been making these since I was a kid. My uncle taught me. Well—kinda my uncle.”</p><p>He wandered closer to the edge of the cliff and sat down on the rock. Castiel turned, wiping the excess alcohol from his lips with the back of his wrist in the process. “Does your uncle have a death wish?” It wasn’t really what he wanted to ask. He wanted to ask what <em>kinda my uncle</em> meant, and when Dean had first started making that horrid drink. He wanted to ask if this uncle had been from Dean’s old life, the life before his mother died, or if he was a man Dean met on his travels. He wanted to ask for any small morsel of information that Dean would give him about his life, just so Castiel could claim he knew this man. That he knew him in ways no one else did. And that, perhaps, if Dean wanted to, he could know Castiel just the same.</p><p>Sometimes, it felt as if he already did.</p><p>Dean chuckled again, staring outward. “Yeah, probably,” he said, but Castiel had already forgotten what he’d asked to prompt such an answer. He sat down beside Dean, eyes flashing to the way Dean’s fingers tapped against the bottle’s neck.</p><p>“We’d stay with him from time to time—me and Sam,” Dean offered. “Dad would put us on a train to Boston, come pick us up a few weeks—maybe a month later. It was good. Ya know, for Sammy. To have some place to go.” His face contorted, like he’d only just realized he was saying this aloud. “Anyway. Probably the reason we settled in Boston in the end.” He took another swig of the bottle before handing it to Castiel.</p><p>Castiel held it between his hands, looking down at it and trying to determine the best way to drink it without it doing any permanent damage to his esophagus.</p><p>“So, uh,” Dean said, leaning backward on the rock. He rested on his elbows, kicked out his legs. Without permission, Castiel’s gaze flickered up and down the long line of Dean’s body. He quickly took a large gulp of the moonshine to distract himself. Too busy trying not to die, he almost missed Dean changing the topic: “You were up pretty early. Busy day?”</p><p>Castiel cleared his throat in an attempt to rid himself of his discomfort. He handed the bottle back to Dean. Even after only a couple sips, he could already feel his thoughts going fuzzy—but he <em>did</em> expressly recall telling Dean earlier that his day would be uneventful.</p><p>“No.” He rolled his eyes. “My father wanted to meet with me before he left for his trip.”</p><p>“Oh, yeah, I saw him head out,” Dean interjected. He didn’t ask where Chuck had gone, probably because he knew Castiel didn’t have the answer. He took a drink. “What’d he wanna meet about?”</p><p>Castiel rolled his eyes, remembering the photographs in his pocket. He reached inside and pulled them out. “Them.”</p><p>Dean sputtered, practically spitting the whiskey back into the bottle, and Castiel was glad <em>someone</em> found this situation amusing. “No way!” Dean laughed, grabbing the stack. He began carding through them, expression shifting from mild interest to enthusiastic approval and everything in between. “Hey, look at this one.” Dean flipped over one picture to show Castiel, and pulled down the corners of his mouth. A very pretty woman stared back; Ingrid, Castiel thought. “Not bad.”</p><p>Castiel looked heaven-bound. The scattered stars wheeling above didn’t offer him any respite.</p><p>“Oh, come <em>on</em>!” Dean groaned, turning over another picture. This one was of a young girl, and Castiel had no idea what her name was. “How old’s this one? Twelve?”</p><p>He doubted she was <em>that</em> young, but he shared the distaste dripping from Dean’s voice. “Likely somewhat older,” he answered. “But it doesn’t matter. I have no interest in marrying a child.” He had no interest in marrying any of them.</p><p>“God, hope not,” Dean said, sounding relieved. He put the photograph to the back of the stack and continued to flip through, and Castiel had quite enough of the faces he was making. He grabbed the pictures, ignoring the sound of protest Dean made in response.</p><p>“My father said he wants <em>me</em> to decide which of them to marry,” he complained, setting the photographs on the rock beside him. It didn’t matter if they got a little dirty. He’d likely never look at them again after that night. In fact, he might as well scatter them into the breeze off the mountain.</p><p>“Okay,” Dean answered with a shrug, offering the bottle again. He was only propped up on one elbow now, laying on his side to face Castiel. “Better than him picking for you, right?”</p><p>Castiel took another swig. Maybe the whiskey was growing on him. It didn’t burn so much anymore. “Maybe,” he allowed. It was bullshit. He amended, “My father will have to approve, anyway. It’s not actually up to me.”</p><p>He drank again. His eyes felt too dry, body heavy around him. His thoughts swam lazily. He stared off toward the far mountains. “Sometimes I wonder if I should run.”</p><p>It took him a moment to realize he’d said that aloud.</p><p>Dean had gone quiet, thoughtful. “So, what’s stopping you?” He asked it like it was simple—like Castiel had actually meant it. And maybe he had; he didn’t know. It was a wistful thought that popped into his head from time to time, never given any serious consideration. Sometimes, it set a fire in his heart, but rational thought put a quick and decisive end to that each time.</p><p>He took another pull of the whiskey.</p><p>“Seriously,” Dean needled. “What? <em>Responsibility</em>? Come on, Cas. You got a responsibility to yourself, too.”</p><p>Castiel looked sidelong at him. “Is that what you do?” he asked, already knowing the answer. It came out harsher than he’d intended. Dean’s eyes flashed, face going taut. After a moment, he snatched the bottle from Castiel’s hand with more force than strictly necessary.</p><p>Castiel breathed out, remorseful. He tried to explain, “My father’s a good man. I have to trust he knows what’s best, even if I can’t see it.” His own words sounded hollow, but he knew them to be true. Besides, he didn’t know another way. He wasn’t like Dean, able to venture out into the world, left to his own devices, without structure or a plan. To dream otherwise was foolish, a fantasy. The manor was his home, he was born into a certain life, and he’d have nowhere else to go if he left that behind.</p><p>“This is my life, Dean,” he said, aware of Dean’s gaze flickering along his profile. He didn’t look back, fearful he’d find something waiting on Dean’s face, something that might cause Castiel doubt. “And it isn’t a bad one. There are things I wouldn’t have otherwise, people I wouldn’t know… People I’m…” He kept his eyes strictly forward, pretending he couldn’t see Dean in his peripheries. “Fond of,” he finished, and it felt like he’d hurled himself off the edge of the cliff into the icy river.</p><p>Dean snorted. “Yeah, like Balthazar,” he said as if he didn’t approve, but it didn’t matter. That wasn’t what Castiel meant.</p><p>He looked back at Dean. “You.”</p><p>Dean went stiff again, likely uncomfortable. Castiel found it hard to regret his words.</p><p>“Besides,” Castiel moved on, turning his attention to the stars. “I believe I can do some good. In fact, I was told about a philanthropic opportunity today. And there’s certainly occasion for social improvement in my future career.”</p><p>Dean shifted beside him, sitting up. “In the publishing firm?” he asked skeptically. “Selling bibles to schools and poetry to rich dudes?”</p><p>“Yes, in the publishing firm,” Castiel told him. “There are more books than bibles out there, Dean, and broader audiences… Women, African Americans. We could publish works to draw them in, promote literacy and discussion—if not for this generation, maybe the younger one.”</p><p>When Castiel looked at him, Dean’s brows were pinched, lips pursed. Castiel withered. He’d never shared these ideas with anyone. He didn’t know why he was telling Dean. He’d hoped Dean would understand, but he was likely mocking Castiel.</p><p>And then Dean said, “You <em>really</em> suck at being rich.”</p><p>Castiel sighed. “I know you mean that as a compliment,” he allowed, “but I’m serious, Dean. I see no reason why people shouldn’t have the opportunity to form their own ideas and forge their own paths.”</p><p>“No, hey,” Dean said, waving his hand through the air. “I hear you. Hell, if anyone’s stubborn enough to change the world, it’s you.”</p><p>Castiel blinked, taken aback. He hadn’t expected to hear that, especially said in such a flippant tone. Warmth bloomed in his chest, quite beyond the heat in his stomach from the whiskey. He felt his lips curve upward.</p><p>Dean’s brow collapsed. “What?”</p><p>And Castiel wasn’t sure how to answer that, except to say that, when he was around Dean, for the first time, he could feel his heart in his chest, his breath in his lungs. That the ground was beneath him and the stars were above, and time was the only thing that wasn’t real. It waited for him and Dean to descend from the mountain top. He couldn’t speak, except to say that he looked at Dean and he suddenly understood poetry. That, all his life, he’d perfected notes composed by other men on the piano without knowing what any of them meant until that moment. All those psalms and scripture recited in church, and he’d only now found religion.</p><p>Softly, he said, “That’s a much better compliment.”</p><p>Dean shook his head, smiling into it. He laid flat on his back. “Whatever,” he muttered. “Just wish you’d take your own advice.”</p><p>Castiel took a moment to gaze at Dean for a little longer while Dean wasn’t looking. He laid back against the cold rock, staring up at the still sky, settling in. At his side, Dean was a wall of warmth.</p><p>“You first,” Castiel joked flatly.</p><p>He thought he could fall asleep, whiskey heavy in his gut, chest light and fluttering, thoughts drifting. He wasn’t sure how long they laid there before Dean sat up again, tapping Castiel’s elbow to rouse him from the cusp of unconsciousness. They rode back to the manor slowly. Castiel kept his eyes open the whole time, never straying from Dean’s profile. It wasn’t until they arrived back home, and he was in bed, simpering up at the canopy, that he realized he’d forgotten the stack of photographs on the mountain.</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p> </p><p>“Just a little further. Watch your—Cas, watch your step.”</p><p>Castiel nearly tripped over a rock. They’d been walking for what felt like hours, but that was possibly because he couldn’t see a damn thing. He’d been sitting in one of the gardens, enjoying the turn of the warm weather, minding his own business, when Dean practically accosted him. He brought Castiel to the edge of the woods, and Castiel’s heart seized with the knowledge that his new hiding place was finally finished. However, that quickly became skepticism when Dean produced a piece of cloth from his pocket and told Castiel to cover his eyes.</p><p>Dubiously, Castiel did as he was told—after some argument regarding the necessity of such a measure, followed by Dean’s counterpoint of, “Just do it.”</p><p>The scattered sunlight filtered through the cloth before Castiel’s eyes, but all he could see were vague outlines and shadows. He was totally reliant on Dean, guiding him by the elbow, through the trees.</p><p>“Dean, this is ridiculous,” he said after his foot connected with another rock. “I’ll never be able to find my way alone if I can’t see a damn—”</p><p>“Cas, you take that blindfold off, so help me God, I will kick your ass.”</p><p>Castiel huffed, dropping his shoulders. “Fine,” he relented. “How much further?” He thought he could hear water. Previously, there’d only been birdsong.</p><p>“Couple more steps,” Dean promised, his touch coming to both Castiel’s elbows now. There was a brightness to his tone, and Castiel could imagine the sparkle in his eyes. They’d be as green as the birthing leaves on the trees around them. When Castiel strained to look downward at the forest floor, he could see Dean’s boots facing him, walking backward.</p><p>“Okay, okay, okay, stop,” Dean told him in a rush, and Castiel nearly stepped on his toes before halting. He assumed that meant he could take off the stupid blindfold, but when he began to reach up, Dean swatted his hands away. “Hang on! Fuckin’ impatient,” Dean grumbled. He put his hands on Castiel’s shoulders, manhandling him into facing a different direction.</p><p>“Okay,” Dean said again into an audible breath. He reached around Castiel’s head and untied the cloth.</p><p>Castiel blinked into the sudden onslaught of light. When his eyes adjusted, the first thing he saw was Dean, still standing directly in front of him, grin stretched from ear to ear. He shone from the inside out, and Castiel found it difficult to look away. But he was eager.</p><p>Behind Dean, in what Castiel remembered as a leaf-strewn clearing of roots, rocks, and weeds, there was a green oasis. A blanket of bright, fresh grass spread out from the water to the trees, and Dean had lined the grass in a squat wall of clean stones. The stream had been rerouted somewhat to bend into the clearing, but its natural flow over the rhododendron roots remained. Perhaps the only other change to it was a deepened pool beneath one of the miniature waterfalls.</p><p>Castiel paced around Dean, his shoes sinking into the fresh earth. Between the shade of two trees was a white stone bench. The trunks were encircled with yellow daffodils. Bumblebees drifted lazily about the petals.</p><p>It felt as though he were a world away from the manor.</p><p>“So?” Dean’s voice, suddenly small, came from behind him. Castiel looked around. Dean’s eyes were ricocheting about, looking anywhere but him. “Do you… You’re not saying anything.” His expression changed, becoming crestfallen. “Let me guess: you hate it.”</p><p>Castiel did not hate it. He turned around to fully face Dean again. Dean, who had built all this for him. Castiel still didn’t know why.</p><p>“No, I…” He pressed his lips together, scanning the garden again as he attempted to find the right words. “It’s…”</p><p>Dean perked up a little, brows popping hopefully. “Awesome?” he supplied.</p><p>Castiel couldn’t help but laugh lowly. “Yes,” he agreed. “Awesome.”</p><p>Dean’s smile returned. They stood still momentarily, eyes on one another. And then he waved toward the bench, licked his lips, and said, “Wanna sit?”</p><p>It was a silly question. Castiel wanted nothing more than to sit with Dean in their hidden garden.</p><p>They sat together on the bench in silence for a few minutes, not quite touching, but Castiel could still feel the thrumming warmth of Dean’s body in the space between them. He watched the stream gurgle and flow. It was peaceful.</p><p>“Is the bench okay?” Dean asked suddenly, and it was another odd question. It was a bench.</p><p>Castiel looked downward, realizing with perplexity, “It’s familiar.”</p><p>“Yeah, I, uh…” Dean put on an innocent face. “Stole it from one of the other gardens. But if anyone asks, it cracked in the winter and I’m looking for a replacement.”</p><p>Castiel nodded conspiratorially. “Your secret’s safe with me.”</p><p>“Gee, thanks,” Dean said, rolling his eyes, but humor pulled at his mouth. He looked around again, seeming a bit more content with his handiwork. And then, “Too bad I couldn’t drag a piano out here, but you’d probably never leave.”</p><p>“Probably.” He twisted his hands on his lap before forcing himself to stop. They remained folded, and he looked down at them. “But it isn’t required. This… It’s perfect.”</p><p>Dean was visibly filled with pride now. “Yeah? You’re sure you like it?”</p><p>Castiel wasn’t sure how many times he’d have to say it before Dean understood. “Yes, I love—” The words got caught in his throat. He felt all the air leave him. “I love it. Thank you for this, Dean.”</p><p>“Uh, yeah, don’t—don’t mention it,” Dean said modestly, and paused to swallow. Again, voice nearly a whisper, he added, “Awesome.”</p><p>Castiel’s eyes fell to Dean’s hands gripping his knees. He wondered what it might be like to reach over, to take Dean’s hand in his. To kiss Dean’s knuckles. His lips. In another life, he met Dean at an altar, moved him into the manor, watched their children grow. He would wake up to him, take his meals with him, play him songs on the piano—and there would be more gardens like this one. A whole world of them, a world all of their own that Castiel would not have to find happiness in because it was already there waiting for him.</p><p>In another life, Castiel never let go of Dean’s hand.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Chapter 9</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>yo yo! get ready for some answers to your questions (and more questions) in these next two chaps! hope you enjoy!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>2020</strong>
</p><p>Dean was getting used to making enough dinner for three people now. He was also getting way too used to wrapping two plates in tin foil and leaving them on top of the stove so he and Cas could eat together. Because, apparently, helping the five-year-old neighbor kid learn how to read tended to cut into dinnertime.</p><p>That night, Dean only wrapped up Cas’ plate, because he’d made cheeseburgers and he was hangry. He spent the majority of his first class studying for a test he had in his second class because he didn’t have the time to do that with everything else going on. And his shift at the garage had been with the co-manager he hated because the guy never let Dean do anything except drive the cars on and off the lift and deal with the unfriendly customers who always thought they were being swindled for more cash—which, okay, a lot of times they were, but everybody’s gotta make a living.</p><p>He’d gotten home to find Sam at the kitchen table, his laptop and a scattered batch of printed papers with weird symbols and highlighted blurbs, spread out in front of him. The kid had made it his job to figure out what the symbol on the back of Cas’ headstone meant, and it looked like he was working overtime.</p><p>Dean gave him extra fries as a thank you.</p><p>He set Sam’s plate on the table next to him, then sat down in the opposite chair to eat his own meal. “So, what d’we got?” he asked, mouth full of meat and bread.</p><p>Sam understood him somehow. He picked up a fry and took a micro-bite out of it. “I think I know what the sigil means—Well, most of it. Still working on the last piece.”</p><p>Dean perked up, not having expected that so soon. He’d only texted Sam the picture of the headstone last night. He swallowed, too interested—and too nervous—to take another bite. “Really? What?”</p><p>“Turns out it’s a bunch of different sigils put together.” Sam turned his laptop around to show Dean a recreated image of the sigil on photoshop. “They come from a few different sources, but most of them were used back in like, the Middle Ages by necromancers.”</p><p>Maybe Dean should have been expecting that—but he’d been hoping that <em>something</em> about this entire situation would be at least a little normal. “Necromancy?” he echoed, shocked.</p><p>“Magic that deals with raising and communing with the dead,” Sam explained levelly, and Dean didn’t think it was worth it to get offended that Sam thought he didn’t know that. Sam spun his laptop back toward himself and continued, “But one of them also has roots in pre-Christian lore. Priests used to use them—”</p><p>“Before the church got all ‘Jesus is love’?”</p><p>“Yeah, exactly. Anyway, since they’re all connected to communicating with the dead, it looks like someone tried to amplify them by putting them together.” As Dean listened, he looked down at his hands, inexplicably feeling a phantom sensation of knuckles scraping and breaking against stone. Shuffling his papers, Sam kept on: “A lot of these are still being used today. I found some of them on blogs and Pinterest posts <em>leading</em> to blogs about Wiccan stuff. Looks like they’re mostly used in séances.”</p><p>Dean dipped an extra greasy fry into his mixture of ketchup and mayo and shoved it into his mouth. It didn’t taste like anything at all. “So, it’s crap?”</p><p>Sam shrugged. “I dunno. You said that medium—Rowena—was using the sigil, right? Maybe she was the real deal.”</p><p>“Do we even believe in this shit?” Dean asked skeptically. He couldn’t help it. It was a knee jerk reaction.</p><p>Sam scoffed. “Dean, after everything that’s happened, I’ll believe anything.”</p><p>Dean hummed with disinterest, because he couldn’t exactly argue. He wiped his hands on his jeans and reached forward to shuffle through some of the papers. One image caught his attention. Dean frowned, tilted his head to look at it better upside down. It was that strange star symbol he saw at the chapel in Boston, only this one didn’t have a circle around it.</p><p>“What’s that?” he asked, not meaning to sound so urgent. He tapped the picture on the page.</p><p>Sam leaned in. He slid the paper out from under the others. “Uh, it’s called a unicursal hexagram—sometimes known as the Aquarian star.”</p><p><em>Aquarian star</em>. Why did Dean know that? “What does it mean?”</p><p>Sam put the paper down and went back to his computer, typing something in. “Uh… six-pointed star… Represents the intersection between the five elements and the macro-cosmic forces of the planetary and the divine,” he read aloud. “So, basically, the mortal world meets the mystical… Uh, let’s see… Meaning is equivalent to the Rosicrucian’s Red Cross, which symbolized the human body and the unfolding consciousness. Also equivalent to the Ankh in ancient Egyptian culture, which—Huh. That’s interesting.”</p><p>Dean’s brows popped. “What is?”</p><p>“It says the Ankh is the hieroglyph Egyptians used to symbolize <em>life</em>. Apparently, pharaohs used to use it to represent their power to sustain life in this world and resurrect souls in the afterlife.”</p><p>Dean sat back in his chair, letting that wash over him. He officially wasn’t hungry anymore.</p><p>“But this wasn’t on the sigil at Cas’ grave,” Sam said, peering at Dean from over the top of his laptop.</p><p>“No, I saw it at the cemetery,” Dean told him, still thinking—but he didn’t know what he was thinking about. His mind kept turning in circles around blank space.</p><p>“What? The Novak cemetery?”</p><p>Dean blinked himself back into reality. “No, mine. In Boston.” He swept out his hand in an aborted motion. “It was carved into one of the stones on the fence. It looked familiar. I dunno, I think I’ve seen it before… Or, I guess, past me did.”</p><p>Sam breathed in and out slowly, heavily, as his gaze flickered across Dean’s face. Dean didn’t like that look. It usually predicated “heartfelt” conversations that were held against his will. “You still don’t remember much?”</p><p>Laughing, Dean said, “Less every day, feels like.” He shook his head, turning serious. “Nah, not really.”</p><p>“What about Cas? Has he said anything?”</p><p>“No,” Dean answered, not meaning to be so quick about it. He glanced at the front door just to make sure Cas wasn’t walking through. He didn’t know why he did it. None of this was a secret, but still. It seemed like Cas was just as much in the dark about all this as they were. “He doesn’t believe in this mystical crap anyway. Said I was the superstitious one.”</p><p>“<em>You</em>?” Sam snorted. “Dean, you don’t believe in anything. You rolled your eyes every time Mom took us to Easter Sunday mass.”</p><p>Dean dipped his head in a nod, again unable to argue. “That’s what I said.” He shrugged and spread out his hands on the table. “Point is, Cas doesn’t know anything. And I don’t know who the hell I am.” And he thought, maybe, Cas didn’t know who the hell Dean was, either. It wasn’t a comforting thought. “So, we got nothing.”</p><p>Sam pressed his lips together and stared down in the general direction of his dinner. His face shifted, eyes moving in thought. “Hey, didn’t Charlie used to date someone who was all into past lives and other planes of existence and stuff?”</p><p>Dean’s eyes snapped up at the reminder. “Yeah,” he said, wondering why the hell he hadn’t thought of that. “Dorothy. Sophomore year. She was always trying to do tarot card readings on me or trying to read my aura or whatever.”</p><p>“Yeah, I’m kinda glad I wasn’t here for that,” Sam interjected. And then, “Okay, well, maybe Dorothy can help?”</p><p>Dean chewed on the inside of his cheek, weighing the option. He shook his head, deciding against it for a few reasons. “It was all a buncha bull.”</p><p>Sam sat back in his chair, throwing his arms up. “Well, I’m out of ideas, Dean, and she probably knows more about this ‘bull’ than we do, so we might as well give it a shot. She might help you remember something. What’s the worst that could happen?”</p><p>Dean almost said that him remembering something was the worst thing that could happen. All those locked away memories in his head were scratching at the barrier, cold seeping out from beneath the cracks in the door like icy tendrils.</p><p>“So, call Charlie. See if she can get in touch with Dorothy. Maybe they still talk.”</p><p>Dean almost bit clean through his cheek then. Because, no, Charlie and Dorothy definitely didn’t still talk. That break up had been pretty messy. But that wasn’t his biggest concern at the moment. Currently, he had about a week and a half’s worth of over a hundred unanswered texts from Charlie and at least half that amount of missed calls. She’d tear him a new one the next time he talked to her.</p><p>“Uh, yeah… I kinda… haven’t talked to her since Cas came back,” he admitted.</p><p>“<em>What</em>?” Sam’s mouth twisted with annoyance. “Dean. It’s Charlie. You can’t just avoid her!”</p><p>“I’m not <em>avoiding</em> her.” He was totally avoiding her. “I’ve been busy! In case you haven’t noticed, my boyfriend that I didn’t even know I had just got back from the dead.”</p><p>Judging by the look on Sam’s face, it wasn’t a good enough excuse. He dropped his shoulders with a breath. “Call her,” he stressed.</p><p>Dean groaned, knowing he had no other choice. He braced himself, stood up, and dug his phone out of his jeans. He went to his missed calls and tapped Charlie’s name before he could change his mind. “You better read up more on necromancy, because she’s gonna kill me and then we’ll be back to square one in the next life,” he told Sam while the phone rang. Sam seemed unimpressed.</p><p>Just when Dean thought he was in the clear and Charlie wouldn’t pick up, the ringing cut off. There was a brief shuffling sound from the other end of the line, and then Charlie’s high-pitched voice sounded: “Dean?” He couldn’t decide if she sounded relieved or pissed. “Finally! I called you like a million times!” Okay, so she was pissed.</p><p>Somehow, Dean hoped he could avoid a conversation about that right now. “I know. Listen, I need a favor.”</p><p>“A what?” Charlie squeaked. “Dude. We haven’t talked in days and now you need a <em>favor</em>? Do I look like the <em>Godfather</em>?”</p><p>Dean looked heaven-bound and tried really hard not to let it turn into a full-blown eye roll. “Can we talk about that later?”</p><p>“We can talk about it now?” she said, making it sound like a question even though he knew it wasn’t one.</p><p>He blew past it. Preparing himself for the inevitable shitstorm to follow, he said, “I need you to call Dorothy.”</p><p>The line went silent. It stayed silent. Dean pulled his phone away from his ear to make sure the call hadn’t disconnected. “Charlie?”</p><p>“Why do you need to talk to Dorothy?” she accused, and then didn’t wait for an answer. “Wait! Is this about—Are you still crazy?”</p><p>He looked around at Sam, who was biting into his burger and offering absolutely no help or sympathy. Dean turned back around. “I’m not crazy!”</p><p>“Well, how the hell would I know? You’re not telling me anything! And I kinda think I deserve to know what’s up. I’m the one who picked you up from that haunted house, remember?”</p><p>Oh, he definitely remembered. That, at least, he could say he remembered with perfect clarity.</p><p>“Yeah, and you’re also the one who made me stay the night in that haunted house—so, if I am crazy, maybe it’s your fault.” There was a sharp, exaggerated gasp over the line, and he regretted his words the second he said them. He was just tired—and hungry again. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “No. Okay. That was harsh. I didn’t mean—”</p><p>“Super harsh!”</p><p>“I know. I didn’t—”</p><p>“And rude!”</p><p>Dean stifled a grunt, trying not to let his anger get the better of him. It didn’t really work. “Okay, fine! You wanna talk? I’ll talk. I’ll come over and tell you everything, if that’s what you want. Happy?”</p><p>She went quiet again. Then, “Maybe. Depends on what you say.”</p><p>His adrenaline drained. His fingers curled tighter around his phone. “And <em>then</em> will you call Dorothy?”</p><p>In a smaller voice, she repeated, “Maybe…”</p><p>He could convince her. He had to. Not just for her help, but for his own sanity, because he could really use her in his corner.</p><p>“Okay,” he said. “I’ll come over tomorrow.”</p><p>“Okay.”</p><p>“Okay.” He hung up the phone before she could say <em>okay</em> again, and shook his head down at it.</p><p>He rounded on Sam, throwing his arms out, silently asking if he was happy, too.</p><p>Sam only bit into his burger again.</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p> </p><p>“Are you sure my being here is a good idea?” Cas asked. “Your friend didn’t seem to like me very much.” Cas was right on Dean’s heels as he walked up the sidewalk to Charlie’s rental, his chest knocking against Dean’s back as they walked, as if the anticipation of a death glare from a five-foot tall redhead was enough to intimidate him.</p><p>Dean half-glanced over his shoulder before coming to a stop at the front door. “Charlie likes everybody,” he assured him, and didn’t allow himself time to second-guess that before knocking. “She was just freaked out before. Don’t worry.”</p><p>Cas pursed his lips, not seeming to buy it. “I can’t say I don’t understand her apprehension. Ours is an abnormal situation.”</p><p>Understatement of the year.</p><p>“Exactly,” Dean said. He could hear footsteps from inside. “But, trust me, give her like, ten minutes. She’ll love you.”</p><p>“If you say so.” He still didn’t sound convinced, and it really wasn’t helping Dean believe his own bullshit.</p><p>The door swung open, and Dean pushed a grin to his face that he hoped looked innocent. “Hey, Charlie.”</p><p>Charlie glowered at him, and then her eyes widened when they flickered to Cas. “Oh, no!” she said, looking like she was ready to slam the door on them. “I said I wanted to talk to <em>you</em>, Dean, not—not <em>Crimson Peak</em>.”</p><p>Dean let out a breath, already feeling his blood pressure rising. He shot Cas a look. Cas looked back, the air of <em>I told you so</em> all around him. “Come on, Charlie!”</p><p>Charlie folded her arms across her chest and raised her brows, an immovable object. Dean reminded himself that he was there to grovel. Stifling a growl, he dug into his jacket pocket and fished out his car keys. “Fine. Cas, go wait in the car.” He dangled the keys out in offering. The Impala was only parked a block away, and with any luck, Dean wouldn’t be long.</p><p>Cas’ face lined like he was about to argue. “Dean—”</p><p>“Just do it,” Dean said, practically begging. He didn’t need both of them mad at him at the same time. Cas challenged his stare for a half a second before snatching the keys.</p><p>“Okay,” he said, and then to Charlie, “I apologize for upsetting you.” He walked back to the sidewalk, keys clamped in his fist.</p><p>Charlie’s eyes flashed guiltily after him, but it only lasted a second before she rearranged her features to be pissed off again. That look was directed at Dean. She turned around, headed back into the house, leaving Dean to catch the door before it slammed.</p><p>“He’s not a raging psycho, you know. He’s safe,” Dean tried when they were halfway into the kitchen.</p><p>Charlie threw her arms up and spun around, her hand landing on the kitchen counter. “Well, how am I supposed to know that? You didn’t answer my calls and texts for a week and half. You could have been murdered.”</p><p>She didn’t really believe that. She would have come over if she did. Still, the same spike of guilt as before shot through Dean.</p><p>“Don’t be dramatic.”</p><p>“I’ll be dramatic if I want,” she maintained. “I’ll be <em>super</em> dramatic. Especially when my best friend ignores me for over a week and then calls me out of the blue asking me to call up my ex!”</p><p>“I wasn’t ignoring—” <em>Groveling</em>. He was supposed to be groveling. He took in a steadying breath. “Okay,” he said, leveling with her. “I am <em>sorry</em> I didn’t text you back. But it’s been… a hell of a week.”</p><p>She exhaled heavily, quickly looking off like she was trying to figure out what to say. “What’s going on? For real this time.”</p><p>He didn’t know how to answer that without sounding batshit insane. It was the main reason he hadn’t answered her calls and texts. He really hadn’t been avoiding her or ignoring her. He just had no idea what to say.</p><p>But he <em>had</em> come prepared. He reached into his jacket’s breast pocket. He took out a few of the photographs they’d taken from the albums at the manor. “Look at these.” He offered them to her. She eyed them skeptically. He waved them around. “Take ‘em.”</p><p>She stepped forward and snatched them from his hand, glaring at him for another second before turning her attention to the top picture—the portrait of Dean in his Union uniform. Her eyes bulged briefly, lips parting, and then became more guarded again. She carded through the other pictures.</p><p>“Everything we told you was the truth,” he tried.</p><p>She slapped the pictures down on the counter. “These could be photoshopped.”</p><p>“You know they aren’t.”</p><p>She glanced back down at them, her resolve weakening. Again, she crossed her arms over her chest, but this time she seemed a lot less hostile—a lot more uncertain. “They could be,” she muttered meekly.</p><p>She was <em>so</em> close to believing it.</p><p>“Then, what about this?” he took out the photocopy of the army ledger Sam had found. He unfolded it, holding it out to her. His name was still highlighted. “Right there. Dean Wesson. Proof he existed. Want more? I can take you to my gravesite.”</p><p>She didn’t take the paper. She eyed him, and he didn’t know if she was convinced or if she still thought he was crazy. Maybe a part of him wanted her to think he was crazy—because then maybe he could believe it, too.</p><p>“This isn’t some break from reality or whatever, okay?” he pushed on, more to himself than to her. “Ask Sam. He believes us now. He’s <em>helping</em> us. Look, it’s—” He didn’t know why he laughed then. It was a quick, sardonic breath. He ran his free hand down his face, across his mouth. Something was building up inside of him. He couldn’t say what it was, but it was overwhelming. The creeping, crawling feeling he got while watching a really good horror movie and the protagonist was being chased by the slow-walking ax murderer.</p><p>He tried to force it down. Gritting his teeth against it, he said, “Charlie, you gotta believe me. Because this is…” He thought of Sam, who had more questions than answers, who watched Dean like a hawk to the point where Dean couldn’t let his guard down for a single second to allow this whole shitshow to get to him.</p><p>He thought of Cas, who was basically like a surly baby, so new to this world, and Dean was responsible for him. Cas needed him. He needed for Dean to not doubt himself, to not freak out. But Dean was. He was freaking the fuck out all the time.</p><p>Dean leaned against the counter, hanging his head. He was fucking exhausted.</p><p>He let the paper hang at his side. It rustled against his jeans when it hit them. “I dunno if I wanna be this guy,” he admitted. He couldn’t hold it in any longer. “I mean, I can’t… I can’t <em>remember</em> anything about him. Or—I <em>do</em>. I think I do. I got no idea if what I think I know is him or me, and I just—I <em>have</em> to know, Charlie. But every time I even get a step closer, I just…”</p><p>He hadn’t said it aloud before. He hadn’t even thought it in the privacy of his own mind. He couldn’t admit that he was terrified and he had no idea why. Because it was something that went beyond the knowledge of a past life. It was insidious, bone deep.</p><p>“I’m shit scared,” he laughed, and it almost felt good. Or it would have if he didn’t feel so cold. He stared at the grout between the square tiles on Charlie’s floor. It was easier to talk to them than to her—to anybody. “I got no idea why. And I don’t think I wanna know.” He tried for a smile, but it felt more like a twisted grimace. He pushed the fear down before it swallowed him.</p><p>“But I gotta know, Charlie,” he said, forcing himself to look at her. “Whatever it is, I have to know who he was—<em>I</em> was. Whatever. But maybe, if I can remember more about him, I can differentiate. But I need your help.”</p><p>Charlie’s gaze scanned his face somberly, thoughtfully. Quietly, she asked, “And what about Castiel? He can’t tell you who you were?”</p><p>“I don’t think he knows. Not all of it. And he sure as hell doesn’t know why this is happening to us.” He scrubbed at his face again. All he saw behind his eyes was Cas sitting at his piano in the manor. Summer was in bloom outside the windows behind him. It was a warm thought.</p><p>“I know how all this sounds,” he said, because <em>really</em>, he heard himself loud and clear. “But, right now, if you asked me the only damn thing I’m sure about? It’s him.” He shrugged, trying to arrange his features into something a little more flippant, trying not to let on to just how much weight that statement had in his heart. “If everything else turns out to be just one big joke or something—” He pointed in the general direction of the front door. “I know he’s real.”</p><p>He made himself look at Charlie again. She was trying so hard to stay doubtful, but her eyes betrayed her. Dean didn’t know what had done it—the pictures, the ledger, or the absurd tragic love story basically out of an Emily Dickinson poem—but he’d somehow managed to sway her.</p><p>She puffed out a breath, a strand of hair in front her face flying upward, and she dropped the act. “Okay, fine, I’ll call Dorothy.”</p><p>Dean breathed, relieved, and happier than he’d ever let on that she was back on his side. “Thanks.”</p><p>She ducked her head, letting the thanks roll off her shoulders. “But,” she said with determination, “before I do that—you’re gonna go get Castiel and bring him inside.”</p><p>Dean jerked his head back in shock. Hope cautiously unfurled in his chest. “What? Really?”</p><p>She shot her brows up, nodding. “Yeah, really. If he’s your soulmate or whatever—” Dean wasn’t sure he was comfortable with that word but he let it slide for now, “—then he’s obviously not going anywhere. And <em>I’m</em> not going anywhere. So, I guess I should meet him for real.”</p><p>Dean’s mood lifted immediately. He knew she’d come around eventually! “Well, alright, then. I’ll crack open some beers,” he said, trying not to grin too widely. He failed. He started for the door, and turned around on his heels on a thought. “Oh, if we’re doing this, maybe pick a movie. I’ve been trying to teach him about the twenty-first century.”</p><p>Charlie gave him an apprehensive look. “Please tell me you didn’t show him <em>Porky’s</em> for educational purposes.”</p><p>Dean blinked, half-offended. He stood by that movie. Cas had hated it, but that was his problem. “It’s a classic.”</p><p>Charlie spun around. “I’m so done with you.”</p><p>He rushed out of the house, excited by the prospect of having a movie marathon with Charlie and Cas. And, sure, maybe it’d come to bite him on the ass later, because now he had the two of them plus Sam to gang up on him at every given moment. But it’d be worth it. He knew it’d be worth it.</p><p>But, when the Impala was within seeing-distance, Cas wasn’t inside. Dean stopped short on the sidewalk, glancing around. He didn’t see Cas anywhere.</p><p>“Cas?” he called, doing his best not to get ahead of himself. There were a hundred logical explanations as to why Cas wasn’t where he was supposed to be. A hundred explanations that decidedly weren’t <em>he got lost</em> or <em>he wandered off and I’ll never be able to find him</em> or <em>someone kidnapped him for ransom</em> or <em>he’s dead </em>or <em>I really am nuts and he never existed</em>. The only issue was, Dean couldn’t come up with a single logical explanation in the moment.</p><p>He rushed to the car, peering into the backseat. It was empty.</p><p>Something was blocking his windpipe. His head felt dizzy.</p><p>He looked up again, searching wildly, and his vision snagged on Cas walking toward him down the sidewalk. He had a piece of paper in his hands, and his brow was pinched as he read it and walked at the same time. A hundred memories of Cas walking through the gardens, his nose in a book, popped into Dean’s head, but they weren’t important right now.</p><p>Dean licked his lips and got a hold of himself. “Cas!” He could hear the anger in his own voice.</p><p>Cas looked up, expression evening out. While he got closer, he asked, “What did she say? Will she speak to her friend?”</p><p>“Yeah,” Dean answered quickly, distractedly. “Where the hell were you? I told you to wait in the car.”</p><p>Cas narrowed his eyes like he didn’t understand why Dean had been worried. “When we were driving here, I noticed a… a gas station on the adjacent street advertising an employment opportunity.”</p><p>Dean shook his head swiftly. “What?”</p><p>“They had a help wanted sign.”</p><p>That didn’t clear anything up. “Okay. And?”</p><p>“And,” Cas said, acting annoyed that he had to spell it out, “I answered the advertisement.”</p><p>Dean had no idea why the meaning of that sentence wasn’t processing correctly in his head. He held out his arms akimbo. “You applied for a job at a gas station?” Cas had no idea how to pump gas—or how to sell people lotto tickets and cigarettes. The guy never had a job before, at least not that Dean knew of.</p><p>But Cas was nodding, kind of looking proud of himself.</p><p>“Why?” Dean asked.</p><p>Cas’ face fell. “You have a job, and you attend school. I have to fill my time somehow. Besides, if I want to be a functioning member of society, I need money.”</p><p>This was a bad idea. Cas had been back in the world for a week and a half and he thought he could just become a <em>functioning member of society</em>? He needed a little more time to come to terms with the fact that society wasn’t hosting balls and salons anymore. If he stepped out into the real world too soon, it could be overwhelming. Dean didn’t want him to feel like he didn’t have a handle on things.</p><p>“You don’t need money. I have money.”</p><p>“Your money,” Cas said pointedly. “And soon, I will, too.” He gave a self-satisfied smile and showed Dean the paper in his hand. It was a new employee contract for a sales associate. He’d signed his name at the bottom, and it looked like a photocopy.</p><p>Dean blanched down at it. “They <em>hired</em> you?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>Dean shook his head even quicker that time. “You don’t even have a social security number.”</p><p>“Well, evidently, your excuse of my involvement in the Amish religion was acceptable. The manager was a lovely woman. She said she was happy to help me integrate into society,” Cas told him smugly. When Dean had given Kelly that bogus excuse, he’d been pretty proud of his ability to think on his feet. Now, he regretted it. “She took a <em>photocopy</em> of the ID card you created for me. It seemed to be enough. I assumed you would approve of the lie, considering it was your idea.”</p><p>Dean wasn’t sure he approved of any of this. But he guessed he could try to talk Cas out of this stupid idea later, after he’d given it more thought. “Yeah, it’s—Whatever,” he said, handing the paper back to Cas. He needed to change the topic before his head exploded. “Why don’t we put a pin in that for now, huh? Charlie’s picking out a movie. She said she wants to hang out.”</p><p>Cas’ brow collapsed. “With… both of us?”</p><p>Dean laughed. “Yeah, dumbass. You and me. I told you, she’s on board.”</p><p>Cas’ expression turned more pleasant. “I’d like to <em>hang out</em> with your friend. I don’t think I ever thanked her for bringing you to the manor that night.”</p><p>Clapping Cas on the back, they headed toward Charlie’s together. “Yeah, maybe hold off on that for a little while. Until she really believes us.” Thankfully, Cas didn’t protest.</p><p>When they got back inside, Charlie was scrolling through Netflix on the TV. A few beers, a bag of popcorn, and the menu for the Chinese place were on the coffee table in front of her. She sat up straighter when they entered the living room, and for a second her and Cas just looked at each other.</p><p>Dean didn’t know why he was holding his breath.</p><p>Then, Charlie stood up, walked around the coffee table, and enveloped Cas in a giant hug. Cas went stiff, looking at Dean for help. Dean was too busy being relieved to notice.</p><p>“We’re gonna be best friends,” Charlie said before letting him go.</p><p>A smile crept onto Cas’ face. He nodded.</p><p>Dean reminded himself that the inevitability of him becoming outnumbered three-to-one was definitely worth it—just for Cas’ smile alone.</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p> </p><p>For most of the week, Dean had been disregarding his homework, which actually seemed like a pretty dumbass thing to do in retrospect. He sat at his desk in his bedroom, staring at a blank Word document, the cursor winking tauntingly at him like it knew something he didn’t. His notebook was open next to the laptop, his task list on the page waiting for him to cross something off. He chewed on his pencil’s eraser and blinked down at the list.</p><p><em>Abstract for his automotive engineering capstone</em>, due tomorrow.</p><p><em>A test in his agro engineering class,</em> on Friday.</p><p><em>Read a chapter on the history of beer production for his wine and beer senior elective </em>(that he decided would be an easy A but was actually pretty annoying), due tomorrow.</p><p>He reached for the half-empty bottle of beer, taking a swig even though it was warm, and decided it counted as homework. His eyes flickered to the clock. 10:04 PM. He really shouldn’t have stayed at Charlie’s all afternoon, but her and Cas got along like a house on fire. Dean couldn’t break them up with how well they were vibing.</p><p>He glanced back down at his notebook, realizing he’d been doodling mindlessly in the margins. They were all sloppy versions of the Aquarian star, some tiny and barely visible from the feather-light touch of lead to paper, some thick and dark against the page. Dean studied each of them, his cheeks dimpling in irritation.</p><p>There was something about that symbol—some memory it conjured. Dean just couldn’t access it. It was still locked tight behind that door in his mind. Every time he reached out to give the handle a jiggle, something in his gut told him to stop.</p><p>The bedroom door opened and Cas walked in, already dressed for bed, breath probably minty from brushing his teeth. He’d get in bed and read for a half hour before going to sleep, like he’d been doing every night. Cas always did like his little nightly rituals.</p><p>“Hey,” Dean grumbled, knowing he really needed to get to work or else he’d be kicked out of his own room so Cas could sleep.</p><p>“How are your studies coming along?” Cas asked. He crossed the room and crawled into bed, tucking himself under the covers on the right side.</p><p>Dean looked back at the blank document on his computer screen, then averted his eyes to the slanted ceiling of his bedroom. “They’re… coming along, alright,” he lied. When he brought his gaze back down to Cas, Cas’ eyes were twinkling with something soft that Dean really didn’t know how to interpret but made the back of his neck heat up bashfully. “What?” he asked guardedly.</p><p>“You were always very intelligent,” Cas told him with pride. “It’s a relief to know you’re able to receive the education you deserve in this life.”</p><p>Dean ducked his head, fighting back the bubbly feeling causing a pressure in his chest. “Okay, sure,” he muttered. He stood up, eager to change the subject to something less awkward. “Anyway. You and Charlie looked like you hit it off today.” He plopped down on the bed next to Cas, propping himself up on his side.</p><p>Cas mirrored Dean’s position. “She’s a very enthusiastic person,” he said, and <em>that</em> was actually the understatement of the year. “I’m glad she’s helping us.”</p><p>“Yeah,” Dean said, letting his eyes fall to the mattress. The lock on that metaphorical door started rattling. His skin raised. “Yeah, me too.”</p><p>“Dean?” Cas dipped his head, brow scrunched with concern.</p><p>“I’m good,” Dean answered before he realized Cas hadn’t even asked him what was wrong. He thought about what he told Charlie earlier, about Cas not knowing everything about Dean. And maybe there was a good reason for that. What if it was better that Cas didn’t know? What if it was better that Dean had forgotten?</p><p>But Dean never knew how to leave well enough alone. It’d drive him crazy, not knowing something about himself. Not knowing something about that other Dean…</p><p>He wondered, if it was really bad, if he could separate himself from it. If he could pretend it happened to someone else. He guessed, technically, it had.</p><p>Cas probably wouldn’t see it that way.</p><p>“It’s just…” he started, knowing it was a bad idea. He should keep his mouth shut. “Say this Hail Mary works and Dorothy decides to help us. And say she’s able to make me remember stuff…” He tried to tell himself that was a lot of <em>ifs</em>. It didn’t make him feel any better. “What if we don’t like it?”</p><p>Cas’ eyes moved from side to side like he didn’t understand.</p><p>“I just mean,” Dean tried again, “what if Dean Wesson did something bad? What if it’s the reason this is happening to us?”</p><p>“Dean.” Cas grabbed his wrist, and Dean felt a little steadier. “That’s not possible. There’s nothing you could have done—”</p><p>“You don’t know that.” Dean didn’t know why he felt so defensive all of a sudden.</p><p>Cas exhaled. “Fine,” he allowed, “but, even if you did do something that managed to go against all sane laws of life and death… At least, we were given a second chance. Together.”</p><p>Dean warmed slightly at that. Cas was right, but it still didn’t stop the nagging, pounding sensation in the back of Dean’s head. He couldn’t shake the feeling that Cas knew even less than he was letting on.</p><p>“Yeah, but how much do you really know? About him? Me.”</p><p>Cas’ expression shuttered. “What does that have to do with anything?”</p><p>So, Dean <em>had</em> hidden things from him. He popped his brows, waiting for an explanation.</p><p>Cas turned his eyes up to the ceiling. He rolled onto his back. “You were born in Kansas to an affluent family.” Dean jerked his head back. That was definitely new information. “Your mother died when you were young and your father moved you and Sam around the country. Eventually, you settled in Boston. You fought in the war. That’s all.”</p><p>Dean shook his head, a hundred questions tumbling through his mind. That wasn’t <em>all</em>. He’d been rich? How? Where’d all their money come from? Where’d it all go that made Dean become a groundskeeper? Why’d they move around so much? Why’d they stop moving? It didn’t make any sense.</p><p>“You <em>sure</em> that’s all you know?” He didn’t mean to sound accusatory.</p><p>He expected Cas to get frustrated. Cas only kept staring up at the ceiling. He folded his hands over his torso, laying there like a corpse in a coffin. Dean watched his chest rise and fall.</p><p>“You didn’t like to talk about your past,” he admitted. “I always assumed… when you were ready…” Dean guessed that time had never come. Guilt washed over him for something he didn’t even do.</p><p>“But it doesn’t matter. Whatever it is, I’m sure you had your reasons,” Cas told him, turning into Dean again. “<em>Normal</em> reasons. You don’t hold sway over life and death, Dean. You’re just a man—albeit, a good man. And very stubborn.”</p><p>That sounded hollow to Dean. “How do you know? I coulda been Jack the Ripper!”</p><p>“Who?”</p><p>Dean huffed and rolled his eyes.</p><p>“I’m sure it’s nothing that dramatic,” Cas maintained. He took Dean’s hand again, playing with Dean’s fingers. “You were in pain. Perhaps one day we’ll both understand why. But it won’t change anything. It won’t change who you are, and it certainly won’t change my opinion of you.”</p><p>Dean nodded, relenting, trying to take comfort in it. He really hoped Cas was right.</p><p>“Well, I figure it out, you’ll be the first to know,” he said, giving Cas’ hand a squeeze. It was more of a promise to himself than to Cas. Because Cas deserved better, and Dean wanted to be better—better than whoever Dean Wesson was. He wasn’t going to keep any secrets from Cas. Especially not after how long Cas waited for him.</p><p>“I appreciate that.” Cas brought Dean’s hand up to his lips and kissed his knuckles, and Dean tried not to squirm with how tender it was. He still wasn’t used to anyone handling him with that much care—but he also wasn’t used to sleeping with someone more than twice, let alone being in a relationship.</p><p>“But, I swear to you, Dean, I’m not going anywhere.”</p><p>Dean’s mouth twitched with a smile. He wasn’t going anywhere, either. “Oh, yeah?”</p><p>Cas nodded.</p><p>“Why don’t you come over here and prove it?”</p><p>Cas’ eyes fell to Dean’s mouth. His tongue darted out to wet his lips, and Dean zeroed in on the motion. Then, slowly, Cas leaned in. Dean closed his eyes, ready to be kissed.</p><p>Cas stopped short, his face hovering close to Dean’s. When he spoke, their lips brushed. “Do your homework.”</p><p>Dean groaned, rolling away. “Fuckin’ tease,” he gritted out, no heat to it. Cas was right, anyway.</p><p>He sat up, ignoring the smug expression on Cas’ face, and leaned precariously off the bed to grab his laptop and notebook from the desk. “Fine. But I’m staying here. And, if you’re already asleep by the time I’m done, I’m waking you up for sex.”</p><p>“Of course,” Cas said absently while he situated himself in bed.</p><p>Dean set his computer on his lap and placed his open notebook between them. Cas glanced down at it, then picked it up. “Is this an art class?”</p><p>Dean scoffed. He wished. “Nah.” He looked at the symbol sketched over and over again. “It’s just that symbol. Can’t get it out of my head. I feel like I’ve seen it before.”</p><p>Cas flipped through the notebook, scanning Dean’s previous notes with mild interest. “You should,” he said. “You had it inked on your skin.”</p><p>Dean froze, everything inside of him shutting down. Slowly, his systems booted up again. He blinked. Cas’ words processed.</p><p>“I had a tattoo of that?”</p><p>Cas must have heard the urgency in Dean’s voice. He looked up. “Yes. On your chest.”</p><p>Dean thought about the way Cas always drew on his skin as they laid together—always in the same spot, always the same pattern. He’d never even realized it before that second. Now, he could picture himself in a bed with a canopy above it, the walls flickering in candle light, and Cas tracing the tattoo over Dean’s heart with the tip of his finger.</p><p>“Why?” Dean’s throat was cracked. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, but he didn’t even feel like he was inside his own body. He had the sensation of floating around somewhere nearby, just a step out of sync with the rest of the world. It was numbing.</p><p>“You said it had something to do with your family,” Cas told him.</p><p>Dean remained still for a moment longer—and then, all at once, he was slammed back into his body. He snatched the notebook out of Cas’ hands and flipped back to the page, glaring hard at the symbol.</p><p>He tore out of bed, ignoring Cas calling his name. His door slammed against the wall when he left his room, but he went right to Sam’s door and started banging. “Sam? Sammy!” There was a light on inside, peeking out through the cracks under the door, so Sam was definitely awake.</p><p>Out of the corner of Dean’s eye, he saw Cas stepping into the hall, face pinched with concern.</p><p>Sam opened his door, his expression matching Cas’. “Dean? What the hell—”</p><p>Dean held his notebook up to Sam’s nose, and Sam had to jerk his head back to look at it fully. “Cas said I had a tattoo of this,” Dean told him hurriedly. “He said it had something to do with our family.”</p><p>Sam’s eyes flashed. “What? What did it have to do with us?”</p><p>“I don’t know,” Cas said, voice flat.</p><p>“He doesn’t know,” Dean reiterated, just on the off-chance Sam hadn’t heard Cas in the small, narrow hall. “We gotta look into it more.”</p><p>Fuck homework. <em>Fuck</em> school. Dean needed to figure out what this symbol meant right away. Maybe there was a professor or someone at the college he could talk to. They had a religious studies department, right? Or maybe someone in the history department with a very specific knowledge in mystical crap? There had to be <em>someone</em> with answers. Hell, he’d drive back to that church in Boston to see if the priest knew anything about it.</p><p>“Okay,” Sam said, nodding and visibly trying to keep his cool. “Alright, yeah. We’ll look into it.”</p><p>Dean forced himself to breathe. His head was spinning. “Okay,” he repeated. He felt like he was about to get a nosebleed.</p><p>Sam went back into his room, padding over to his laptop on his bed. He sat down in front of it and instantly started typing away.</p><p>Cas appeared at Dean’s side, brushing against him, and Dean had been so lost in thought, the contact made him jump slightly. He looked quickly at Cas, just fast enough to see the strange look of apprehension etched onto Cas’ face before he swiftly rearranged his features into something more neutral.</p><p>Dean’s stomach churned. For all Cas’ talk about knowing who Dean is and not being concerned about what they were going to find out, he was worried, too. Dean swallowed, really hoping they were both just being dramatic.</p><p>He turned to face Cas and slid his palms under Cas’ jaw. “We’re gonna figure it all out together,” he reminded him, hoping his tone didn’t let on how shaky he felt on the inside. He thought he was doing a pretty good job at hiding it.</p><p>Cas nodded, hiding it well, too. He placed his hands on Dean’s shoulders, giving them a quick squeeze of comfort before letting them fall away. Dean dropped his hands, too, about to turn back to Sam.</p><p>But then something else popped into his head. Something he thought might help them with their search. He didn’t know what it meant, but it suddenly seemed important.</p><p>He stuck his head into his brother’s room. “Sam? When you’re looking up that thing…”</p><p>Sam glanced up at him in question.</p><p>Dean grabbed the knob of the bedroom door. There was a knocking at the back of his head.</p><p>“Try searching for something called the Men of Letters.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Chapter 10</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>1867</strong>
</p><p>It rained all day, a steady downpour that soaked the lawn and made the flowers droop under the weight of it. It beat against the manor’s windows, droplets chasing each other down the glass. On days like that, Dean spent most of his time inside. He didn’t need to water the plants since the sky was taking care of that for him, and attempting to do anything else was useless. Sure, there’d be debris from the trees on the grounds tomorrow, and the lawn furniture and planters would be streaked in mud, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.</p><p>In fact, he liked inclement weather more and more these days. Not only did they gave him time to relax, but he usually spent them with Cas. Snow or rain, they’d waste hours in the music room. One day, boredom had driven Dean to ask Cas to teach him to play piano. It definitely wasn’t his favorite rainy-day activity, but spending time with Cas was. It didn’t really matter to him what they did.</p><p>That day, they spent nearly all morning at the piano—until Dean’s fingers were stiff and he never wanted to look at another piece of sheet music for the rest of his life. He gave up in the early afternoon in favor of lazing on the couch, reading the newspaper to the soundtrack of Cas’ latest attempt to out-master the great composers. That was until Jo kicked them out for an hour so she could clean the room.</p><p>They spent lunch on the porch, shielded from the driving rain under the overhang. Dean didn’t mind the stray, misting drops that touched his cheeks as he sat next to Cas in silence. They smoked cigarettes and simply watched rivlets of water pool on the gravel and race down the hill toward the front gate.</p><p>Sometimes, that was the reason he liked days such as this one: the quiet. The comfort in the silence. Dean would do his best not to look at Cas and wonder what he was thinking—if he enjoyed their days together, too. If he thought about Dean at all.</p><p>Dean would probably never know the answer, and that was fine. Because, sometimes, in those moments, he could pretend Cas wasn’t an heir with his whole life awaiting him. Or he could pretend he wasn’t a groundskeeper with memories he’d rather forget. The illusion never lasted long, and Dean didn’t mind that too much, either. He didn’t want to pretend around Cas.</p><p>Besides, maybe it was okay that they were different.</p><p>Hell, maybe it was <em>better</em> that way. Dean could find a solid foothold in reality with that reminder. It was a good thing. It meant Cas was safe. Dean could be his friend. Dean could give Cas a new place to hide; he could sit close to Cas, heart pumping when their shoulders brushed; he could steal glances when Cas wasn’t looking. It was safe. It didn’t need to mean anything.</p><p>Dean never had any illusions about that.</p><p>By nightfall, they were back at the piano, and Cas’ peaceful silence had drifted more into the realm of sullenness. He kept pausing, fingers hovering over the keys, and starting up again. He seemed distracted, gloomy. At first, Dean thought it was because Cas always hated spending all day inside the manor. But his mood on rainy days usually brightened from the morning to the afternoon, once they’d found something to occupy their time.</p><p>It went in reverse that day. With every passing hour, Cas seemed to retreat deeper into himself.</p><p>Dean nudged his shoulder, taking his hands off the keys. “You need some alone time, grumpy?” he teased.</p><p>Cas didn’t glance at him. Deadpan, he said, “Only if you’re going to start asking questions.”</p><p>Yeah, something was definitely bothering him. And Dean thought he knew what.</p><p>“Hell yeah, I am. What’s with the face?”</p><p>“It’s just my face,” Cas said, still not looking up.</p><p>“No, it’s your <em>my father’s making me be sociable again</em> face.”</p><p>Dean had known about the upcoming party for a few days. Zachariah had told the entire household staff to get ready for it. It’d hit Dean like a slap to the face, because Chuck hadn’t organized a matchmaking event in months. But he’d probably gotten sick of Cas’ indecisiveness to choose a wife and went back to Plan A of doing it himself. Dean could only imagine how Cas was feeling about all of it. Maybe they’d both gotten too used to the lull in activity. It was always bound to start up again.</p><p>And that was a good thing. Not for Cas, but Dean had been getting a little too comfortable with their days together. He needed an excuse to shove down whatever thoughts he sometimes had about Cas. Because that’s all they’d ever be: thoughts. Not even. They were nothing. Dean wouldn’t let them be anything. He needed to shut them down as soon as they got into <em>something</em> territory.</p><p>Because Cas might have been safe, but Dean wasn’t. He couldn’t afford to allow himself an inch.</p><p>“It’s a masquerade ball,” Cas said, and the annoyance was practically dripping off his tongue, but Dean didn’t really know why. Mostly because he had no idea what a masquerade ball was.</p><p>“A what?”</p><p>“Everyone will be in costume,” Cas said. His words were punctuated by overly-dramatic notes as he pressed down on the keys. “Although, I don’t know how I’m expected to find a wife if I don’t know who anyone is.”</p><p>Dean tried not to think about how that actually sounded kind of fun—under any other circumstance. His stomach was doing that weird tightening thing it always did when he was around Cas. Forcing brightness, he said, “It’ll be like Cinderella.”</p><p>Cas looked at him, frowning. The vertical line was between his eyes. Dean pointedly didn’t look at it. And, really, he should have known Cas wouldn’t understand the reference. He doubted people of his social standing had any need for folklore and mythology. Most people didn’t know that a lot of the bedtime stories parents told their children were more than just stories.</p><p>“Forget it,” Dean grumbled.</p><p>“Anyway,” Cas sighed. He stared off into the middle distance over the top of the piano, looking miserable. “I’ll have to wear a mask. I suppose, first I’ll have to <em>purchase</em> a mask. It seems like a lot of unnecessary work.”</p><p>Dean shrugged, busying himself by positioning his fingers on the keys, even though he didn’t plan on playing. “Seems kinda fun to me.”</p><p>“Then, maybe you should go,” Cas groaned, side-eying him. “If you’re in disguise, no one will know it’s you, and you can dance with as many debutants as your heart desires.”</p><p>Dean’s mind instantly ran away from him. It conjured up images of him in a fancy suit, his face covered. But he wasn’t dancing with girls in his imagination. He was dancing with Cas.</p><p>He pulled himself out of those thoughts the second he realized he was having them. “Right,” he agreed, voice hoarse.</p><p>Cas didn’t notice. “Of course, maybe they <em>will</em> know it’s you. You’re a terrible dancer.”</p><p>Dean rolled his eyes, but he guessed Cas had a point. Besides, it was better not to dwell on it. He couldn’t just walk into the ballroom and start dancing with Cas. It was a stupid fantasy. And it was one he couldn’t get out of his head no matter how hard he tried.</p><p>“What kind of mask are you gonna get?” he asked after clearing his throat, hoping to steer the conversation into safer territory.</p><p>“I haven’t given it any thought,” Cas said—in typical Cas fashion.</p><p>“What? Dude! Come on. You’re allowed to have <em>some</em> fun, you know?”</p><p>Cas ignored him and went back to playing.</p><p>Dean stared at his profile, annoyed. Cas didn’t know how lucky he was, getting to go to all these grand parties all the time, especially when they were themed. All Dean could do was live vicariously through him, but Cas wasn’t exactly a willing participant. It was frustrating.</p><p>“Look, it’ll be great. I’ll go into town with you and help you pick one out,” he offered. “Humor me.”</p><p>“If I say yes, will you stop talking about it?” Cas relented, tone brooding.</p><p>Dean grinned victoriously and drew and X over his heart with his finger. “Cross my heart.”</p><p>“Then, fine. I’ll humor you.”</p><p>An excited thrill went through Dean. Sure, he wouldn’t get to go to the party himself, and he wouldn’t get to dance with Cas—but he could still pick out a costume. He could still be close to Cas. It would be fun. And maybe it would even be enough to fill the aching pit that had opened up behind his ribcage that he tried so hard to twist into jealousy.</p><p>“Great!” Dean said again, slapping the top of the piano, which earned him a pissed off glare that barely even registered anymore. “You’ll have the best costume of the night!” Cas’ glare turned to cautious apprehension. Dean told him, “Don’t worry. Not good enough to get you a wife.”</p><p>The cautious apprehension turned into relief.</p><p>“Maybe enough for you to defile someone’s virtue—”</p><p>“Dean!” Cas scolded, scandalized.</p><p>Dean held his palms up in surrender. “Just a suggestion.”</p><p>Maybe he was self-sabotaging. He was good at that.</p><p>Cas withered, facing front again. “I’ll leave the disgraceful behavior to you.”</p><p>Trying not to feel too giddy, Dean pushed away from the piano and stood up. “Alright. I’ll see you tomorrow?”</p><p>Cas inclined his head in something like a nod but didn’t look up. “Goodnight, Dean.”</p><p>Dean made for the hallway, opening the door just enough to squeeze through. He turned back, eyes landing on Cas. Cas was messing around on the piano, idly pressing keys to create slow, somber and disjointed tunes. Dean watched him for a moment, the emptiness in his chest expanding and contracting. He felt the corners of his lips pull sadly upward.</p><p>Dancing with Cas... It really was a nice thought.</p><p>He pulled the door closed.</p><p>The piano’s tune followed him down the corridor toward the kitchen, where he’d hoped to find some leftover dessert in the icebox. He wasn’t hungry, but focusing on eating would stop him from fantasizing about what attending a masquerade ball with Cas on his arm might be like.</p><p>When he swung into the kitchen, it was mostly dark but for the one flickering candle on the butcher block in the center of the room. Benny stood on one side of the block, arms folded, eyes studious. He was watching Jo, sitting across from him, bite into something that looked like a cupcake.</p><p>Dean didn’t know if he felt jealous or betrayed.</p><p>“Hey!” he called, instantly catching both their attention. He paced inside, arms held out. “What the fuck? I thought I was your taste tester.”</p><p>Jo rolled her eyes, setting down the half of the cupcake she’d bit into. If she hadn’t been chewing, she probably would have said something sarcastic.</p><p>“Sorry, brother,” Benny said, sounding humored. “Need to get the menu for this weekend set by the morning and I couldn’t find ya. I did look.”</p><p>Jo patted her mouth with the cloth napkin laid across her lap. “I knew where you were,” she said. Dean shot her an accusatory glare, placing his hands down on the top of the block. He wasn’t really angry, but he definitely would have preferred trying out Benny’s latest creation over listening to Cas complain about the latest opportunity for all the women in town to fawn over him.</p><p>“But I wanted cupcakes,” Jo continued teasingly. “Plus, I figured you and Castiel were too busy being attached at the hip for you to notice.”</p><p>Dean’s first reaction was to let out a scoff of denial. It was his second reaction, too. The tips of his ears were heating up.</p><p>Benny let out a surprised laugh, seeming pretty pleased with himself. “Is that where you’ve been all day? Shoulda known with all the rain.”</p><p>“With the—” Dean stammered, agitated. How the hell did Benny know his habits just from the weather? Did everyone else know, too? Jesus. He got a bad feeling he was the latest topic of gossip in the staff quarters. He cleared his throat and stood up taller to make it look like he didn’t care. And he didn’t. They could say whatever the hell they wanted. They didn’t know shit about him and Cas.</p><p>“Okay, first of all—”</p><p>Benny didn’t let him finish. He walked over to the scullery, calling over his shoulder, “What’s his mood like, anyway? Bet he ain’t happy with the upcoming party.”</p><p>“He definitely isn’t,” Jo said. “Zachariah keeps harassing us to make sure everything’s clean. As if anyone’s gonna notice a speck of dust on the upstairs hallway’s sconces.”</p><p>Dean hummed in support. Zach had been on his case, too, but Dean pretty much let it go in one ear and out the other these days. He figured he was safe, since Dean’s best friend was technically Zach’s boss. Not everyone had that kind of job security though, and Zach usually took out his stress on everyone else. Not that it was Cas’ fault. Sure, Cas liked to be an asshole to the butler when he was in a bad mood, but he didn’t know the ramifications of that. Zach was a bigger asshole for treating his staff like crap.</p><p>Plus, Cas was a pretty funny asshole, even if he wasn’t trying to be. Zach usually <em>did</em> try to be funny—and he really wasn’t.</p><p>“Ooh-who, you’re telling me! I’m surprised he ain’t in here right now taste testing everything himself,” Benny exclaimed, coming back with another cupcake. This one looked like it was a different flavor. Maybe chocolate. Dean’s mouth watered when Benny offered it to Jo for comparison.</p><p>“Yeah, Cas isn’t too cheery,” Dean told them to get his mind off the food, which was stupid because the whole reason he’d come into the kitchen was so food could get his mind off Cas. “Don’t know why. An anonymous costume party? He’s living my dream.”</p><p>“I don’t think it’s your kind of party,” Jo quipped even though her mouth was full again. She probably couldn’t resist.</p><p>Dean sneered at her and gave a fake laugh. She gave it right back to him.</p><p>“Well, it could be,” Benny said, folding his arms on the butcher block and leaning into them. He was mostly looking at Dean, but Dean caught the not-so-subtle way his eyes flickered to Jo. He had a feeling he was being led into a trap. “Like you said, it <em>is</em> anonymous. Wouldn’t be too hard getting you into the ballroom. Might find yourself an heiress to woo. Or, ya know. Maybe an heir instead.”</p><p>Dean’s eyes widened, brows shooting up to his hairline. His gaze shot to Jo, who was biting back a smile. Dean didn’t scoff that time, but his first, second, and third instinct was to deny, deny, <em>deny</em>.</p><p>He licked his lips, bracing himself. “What the hell does that mean?”</p><p>“You could dance with Castiel,” Jo said bluntly, putting down the remains of the second cupcake next to the first.</p><p>“Why would I wanna do that?” he shot back, baring his teeth. Jo and Benny both looked away and pulled dubious expressions. Dean didn’t know if he should be offended. “What, do I look like a debutant to you? Me? Dance with—” He gave a bitter laugh, wondering if he was laying it on too thick. He couldn’t stop thinking about dancing with Cas. “I don’t wanna dance with Cas. End of story.”</p><p>Jo nodded, pulling a frown. “Okay.”</p><p>“I don’t!”</p><p>“Okay,” Benny agreed, sounding unconvinced.</p><p>Dean laughed dryly again. “Oh, come on! Even if I did want to—and I don’t—” he swiped his hands through the air to drive his point home, “it wouldn’t matter. I mean, yeah, I’d be in a mask but that won’t hide the fact that I’m a man. And that he’s a man. And men don’t dance together. He definitely wouldn’t be into that. Neither would Chuck.” Belatedly, he thought he should add, “Or me!”</p><p>He was definitely laying it on too thick. He could feel how animated his features were. Besides, he was pretty sure Benny and Jo already knew that Dean didn’t exactly discriminate between genders. Gossip about his week-long fling with Lisa Braedon, the seamstress that came to the house every time one of the Novaks needed a new suit, spread through the staff like wildfire. And they’d both made jokes about how Dean always flirted with the courier, even when Aaron didn’t have a letter to bring to Dean.</p><p>And that was all well and good, but Cas was different. He wasn’t a fling or fun. He was <em>Cas</em>. Dean wasn’t about to mess with that.</p><p>“I hear you,” Benny told him in a way that suggested he really hadn’t heard Dean at all. “Can’t say I disagree. But stranger things have happened. With a little planning, anything’s possible.”</p><p>No way Dean was touching that with a ten-foot pole.</p><p>“Planning?” <em>Damnit</em>.</p><p>He shook his head, his whole body going with it, in an attempt to undo whatever inkling of curiosity he might have let on. “No. You know what? I don’t care. Whatever <em>plan</em> you got, save it for someone who’s interested. Or, hell, <em>you</em> dance with him if you’re so eager.” He gestured toward Benny, then to himself. “Because I sure as shit can’t dance!”</p><p>“I can,” Jo said. “So can Benny. I’m sure you’re not <em>so</em> awful that we can’t teach you by Saturday night.”</p><p>“Teaching him to dance in time is doable,” Benny agreed, crossing his arms again. His voice took on a goading litany, “But there’s no need, Jo. Dean don’t want to dance with Cas, remember?”</p><p>Jo snapped and pointed at Benny. “Right, right. Almost forgot.” She was grinning.</p><p>Dean ground his teeth, wondering how many times he’d have to say no. To them. To himself.  The temptation to at least hear them out was tugging at his ribcage. He didn’t have to commit to anything before he heard their plan…</p><p>No. No way. It wasn’t happening. The fact that they’d even talked about this behind his back was mortifying enough. He wasn’t subjecting himself to more humiliation, especially in front of Cas and every other member of Amherst high society.</p><p>“Thanks, I’m good,” he bit out. “You know what I’m gonna do instead?” He leaned over and swiped up the discarded half of the chocolate cupcake. “I’m gonna take this back to my apartment and go to sleep. And, if I see either one of you <em>planning</em> or whatever in the morning, I’ll kick your asses.” He pointed sternly at Jo. “That goes double for you.”</p><p>She held up her hands in surrender, but she didn’t look the slightest bit intimidated. Neither did Benny. All he said was, “Suit yourself.”</p><p>Dean spun around on his heels and stomped toward the corridor. His shoulders were held tight, hunched up, and he did all he could to keep his body wound tightly. He forced any and all thoughts from his head.</p><p>The sound of the piano met him in the hallway. Its sad and sweet tune wrapped around him. He could picture Cas bowed over the keys. Dean could get lost in that sound, in that image. In him.</p><p>Dean felt himself unraveling. He stopped short, staring down at the bitten cupcake in his hand.</p><p>Was he really about to miss out on this opportunity? Especially when Cas had practically asked Dean to attend the ball earlier—even if he hadn’t been serious.</p><p><em>Had</em> he been serious?</p><p>Dean hissed, “Damnit…”</p><p>He spun around quickly before he could change his mind and stormed back into the kitchen.</p><p>“Okay, what’s the plan?”</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p> </p><p>A devilish image stared back at Dean in the mirror—a pitch-colored face with a pointed nose and large silver horns. Heavy horns. He’d probably topple over face-first if he tried to walk in that mask, let alone dance. He took the mask off and set it down on the shelf where he’d found it.</p><p>The costume shop was full of them. It had a whole wall dedicated to masks alone. Some covered his entire face, while others only hid his eyes. The latter wouldn’t do. If this stupid plan was going to work, he needed to be completely unrecognizable.</p><p>Dean moved away from the small oval mirror set upon the shelves. He dragged his fingers along the wood, looking at the masks. There was one made of metal to resemble a wolf, another one with horns, some with elaborate designs and gaudy colors, some with feathers or tassels. None of them caught his attention. He wondered if he should go to the front of the store, where the more expensive masks made of better material were housed in glass casings.</p><p>Those were the ones Cas was looking at. Dean had left him there a few minutes ago, feigning boredom so he could check out the items in his own price range. He’d taken a turn around the wigs and fabrics to throw Cas off his scent before heading over to the masks. It was probably a dumb precaution, because Cas didn’t even notice. He was too busy leaning over the display case, practically yawning at every single option the shopkeeper was trying to sell him on.</p><p>And Dean couldn’t help but think this masquerade ball was wasted on Cas, because he didn’t even seem a little bit excited. Dean was. He was thrilled, actually, but he didn’t know if he was looking forward to putting on one of these masks or dancing with Cas more. He guessed, if it <em>was</em> the anticipation of dancing, he was confusing bone-chilling terror for excitement. So maybe it was the concept of attending a ball, after all.</p><p>He wondered if this might have been what his life would be like if things had gone differently when he was a kid. If he could have had more excuses to don a funny costume. He actually might have liked that part of high society, unlike Cas, who thought every social event was a chore.</p><p>Halfway down the shelf, there was a simple black mask made of stiff leather. It folded to a point at the bridge of the nose, running down the center in what reminded him of a small bird’s beak. The top corners of the mask curled upwards into what resembled horns. Despite its simplicity, it looked demonic.</p><p>Dean picked it up and held it to his face. It seemed to cover all of him. He brought it over to the mirror, inspecting it further. He liked it. It made him look mysterious.</p><p>He smiled beneath the mask, deciding that was the one.</p><p>“Dean?” Cas’ voice called from the front of the store. Dean jumped as if he’d been caught. He took the mask off and put it back on the shelf, deciding to make an excuse before they returned to the manor to slip away from Cas and circle back to the shop.</p><p>He went back to the front, passing by a rack filled with colorful boas and broad, white costume wings of iridescent white feathers.</p><p>Cas was still in the exact same spot as before. He was frowning down at a porcelain purple mask with a ton of black feathers jutting out of the sides. The shopkeeper was on the other side of the case, expression harried, like Cas was being impossible to deal with. Dean almost snorted out a laugh.</p><p>“Any luck?” Dean asked, eyeing the mask as he got closer, and he really hoped that wasn’t the one Cas was thinking about buying. He left the guy alone for five minutes, and he’d managed to go rogue and pick out the ass-ugliest product available. No way was Dean dancing with him in that thing.</p><p>“No,” Cas said flatly. He lifted the mask a little higher. “What do you think of this one?”</p><p>Dean pulled a face. “Hell no, is what I think.”</p><p>Cas sighed like that had been the last straw. “Fine, then I simply won’t attend.”</p><p>It was a hollow threat and they both knew it. While Cas handed the mask back to the shopkeeper, Dean’s eyes flashed around the options in the casing.</p><p>“There’s gotta be <em>one</em> you like,” he said.</p><p>“Not so far.” Cas leaned a little further over the glass. “What about that one?” He pointed to a white and gold mask—again with feathers. The shopkeeper reached for it.</p><p>“Not sure about the feathers,” Dean said, and the clerk’s hands stopped, hovering.</p><p>Cas stood up straighter, turning into Dean. Dean hadn’t realized they’d been standing so close until Cas’ shoulder brushed up against his chest. “If I can’t find a mask, would it be appropriate to call the whole thing off?”</p><p>Dean rolled his eyes. “Stop being such a baby. It’s gonna be awesome.”</p><p>Cas huffed.</p><p>Dean ignored him in favor of giving the case another cursory glance. Something toward the back caught his eye: a simple white mask, probably made of ivory or porcelain, but engraved to look like lace.</p><p>“Let’s see that one,” he said, indicating it to the shopkeeper.</p><p>The man lifted it out and handed it to Dean. It was light, delicate. “Okay, try it on,” Dean said, turning fully toward Cas. He held it up to Cas’ face. While he did, Cas tied the straps in a bow at the back of his head. Dean let his hands fall away.</p><p>The mask was a perfect fit for Cas’ face. It only covered the area around his eyes, coming about halfway down his nose. The off-white color was a stark contrast to his dark hair. Behind the mask, his eyes seemed even bluer than usual.</p><p>Dean pulled down the corners of his mouth in appreciation. “Yeah, good.”</p><p>Cas touched the mask with the very tips of his fingers. “Is it?” He turned to the mirror standing on top of the case and stooped to inspect himself. He must have decided it was suitable, because he stood back up and said, “I’ll take it.”</p><p>“Excellent, sir,” the clerk said, clearly trying not to sound too relieved.</p><p>Satisfied, Dean cocked a grin. He watched Cas take off the mask and hand it to the clerk. Then, an idea struck him. He looked around, eyes landing on the rack with the costume wings. “Hang on,” he said, ignoring Cas’ confusion and the sudden look of pure horror on the shopkeeper’s face. Dean walked over to the rack and brought back the wings. “We gotta complete the look.”</p><p>Cas lifted a skeptical brow. “Don’t you think some might find that a little blasphemous?”</p><p>Dean rolled his eyes, trying to hide his giddiness. He’d be a demon at the party; Cas could be an angel. It was too good to resist now that the idea was in his head. “Who cares? It’ll be fun.”</p><p>Cas sighed, apparently too apathetic to put up a fight. “Fine.” He turned to the shopkeeper. “We’ll take these, too.”</p><p>Dean tried not to start bouncing with excitement.</p><p>Cas paid, and the shopkeeper put the mask in a velvet-lined box and wrapped it up with brown paper and twine. He also wrapped up the wings. The two of them left the shop, the packages dangling by their strings at Cas’ side. Dean got the door for him, and they set out into the crisp early afternoon.</p><p>The costume shop was in the middle of town, right across the cobbled street from a tiny green square of benches, trees, and a fountain. A crowd was moving to and fro on the sidewalks, and the clop of horseshoes sounded on the stones as carriages and carts were pulled along. Sidewalk performers amazed crowds with card tricks and juggling. The trees were shedding the flowers that had bloomed on them, causing petals to rain down with each gust of wind to be trod on by hoof and boot, or to get stuck between the stones on the road.</p><p>“So, what d’you say,” Dean asked as they walked down the sidewalk. “Grab some lunch before we head back to the manor?” It was just after midday and Dean was getting hungry. He figured he shouldn’t be away from the manor for too long, or else Zach would have a heart attack, but he always had time for food. Besides, it would give him an excuse to go back to the costume shop while Cas wasn’t with him. Dean would fake like he’d left something behind, tell Cas to order him a steak and potatoes, and that he’d be right back. Cas would be none the wiser.</p><p>But Cas didn’t appear to be listening. He was squinting forward at the violinist on the street corner on the opposite side of the road. Behind her, a row of colorful tarps and tents were lined up—fake psychics and tarot card readers making up stories to unsuspecting folks to make a dime. Dean’s gut soured. He wanted to steer clear of that area entirely.</p><p>“She sounds grand,” Cas admired. Without looking at Dean, he said, “Let’s get closer and listen.” He started across the street, careful of oncoming carriages as we went.</p><p>“Cas—” Dean tried, reaching out to grab him, but it was already too late. He held his arm out for another second, defeated, and curled his hand into a fist, letting it drop to his side. He exhaled heavily, following Cas.</p><p>There was a modest crowd around the violinist, and her instrument’s case was scattered with coins and banknotes from generous passersby. Cas picked a spot toward the back of the crowd, closest to the psychic’s tents, because of course he did.</p><p>Dean cast a wary eye toward the tents before settling next to him, hovering a little closer than strictly necessary. His gaze kept flickering back to the tents, just to make sure they were as innocuous as they seemed. He knew they were probably safe, but he hadn’t survived this long without a little bit of healthy skepticism where mystics were involved.</p><p>“I never mastered the violin,” Cas pondered as he listened.</p><p>Dean looked back at him distractedly, the words taking a second to process. “Well, that’s why you got the piano.” He tried not to think about Cas’ fingers plucking at the strings of a violin.</p><p>Cas hummed, and Dean didn’t know if that meant he agreed or disagreed. Instead of trying to figure it out, Dean listened to the music. It was a forlorn, slow song—definitely one Cas would gravitate toward. The melancholic notes drifted across Dean’s flesh, making it numb and bump in a way that reminded him all too much of the chill in the spring breeze. Without thinking about it, he leaned in a little closer to Cas’ side, basking in the warmth of his body.</p><p>Dean surreptitiously cast a sideways glance at him. Another gust hit, shaking the branches of the overhead tree. Petals scattered, cascading and fluttering in pink and white around Cas. One got stuck in his hair, and Dean did his damnedest to stop himself from brushing it out.</p><p>The song swelled and crooned. Dean’s mind filled with images of Cas’ fingers tapping away at the keys of his piano, wrapped around a bottle of moonshine, with a rolled cigarette between them, the way Cas licked them before turning the page of his book. He pictured them on Dean’s skin, fingertips dragging up and down his chest, digging into his back, leaving a mark.</p><p>Between them, the back of Cas’ knuckles brushed against Dean’s.</p><p>Dean inhaled quickly, almost in a gasp. He drew his hand away, trying not to swallow too hard. The violinist played her last notes. The onlookers, Cas included, applauded.</p><p>Dean rattled himself, coming back down to earth. He reminded himself where he was. His eyes snagged on the curtseying musician, and then he peered over his shoulder at the tents. And he decided that was quite enough discomfort for one day.</p><p>“What were you saying earlier?” Cas asked, turning to face him. They were so close. Cas didn’t even seem to notice. The fucking flower petal was still in his hair.</p><p>Dean cleared his throat and took a step back. “Huh? Nothing. Just, uh—Food. Let’s see if we can find some lunch,” he said, grabbing Cas’ elbow to shepherd him away from the psychic tents.</p><p>But Cas dug in his heels. “Wait, Dean,” he said, eyes cast somewhere over Dean’s shoulder.</p><p>Dean wanted to snap at him for getting so easily distracted. He followed his line of vision toward a familiar redheaded woman. She was holding back the flap of her tent, waving off the exiting customer. A pushed smile was on her face, money clutched in her hand. “Isn’t that the woman who Zachariah hired?”</p><p>“Who, her?” Dean said, feigning ignorance. “Nah. Now, let’s go. I’m starving—”</p><p>It was too late. Rowena looked over, catching sight of Cas. Her smile shifted to resemble the cat who just ate the canary. “Well, I remember you, don’t I?” she called over, leaving her tent behind to saunter up to them. Dean inwardly groaned. He turned fully to face her, and drew himself to full height, hoping he looked intimidating. She barely paid him any mind. “Mr. Castiel Novak, isn’t it?”</p><p>Cas nodded. “Yes. Hello, Ms. MacLeod.”</p><p>“Rowena, please,” she purred, holding out her slim hand. Cas gently took her fingers in greeting, but thankfully didn’t bow down to kiss them. Dean probably would have chewed a hole right through his own cheek if he had.</p><p>Rowena’s eyes flashed to Dean, seeming unperturbed despite his best efforts.</p><p>“Oh, but you ran off that night, if I remember correctly,” she told Cas. “You didn’t get to see the show.”</p><p>Castiel thinned his lips, looking guilty even though he probably didn’t feel it. At least, not for leaving. “Apologies. I…” His eyes flashed to Dean for a fraction of a second, and Dean tried to convey just how much he wanted to leave this conversation. Cas didn’t seem to notice. “Had matters to attend to.”</p><p>“Well, it’s no bother, then,” she said, clapping her hand on top of his and squeezing. “You’ll just have to let me do a palm reading on you now. Free of charge.”</p><p>No. Hell no.</p><p>Dean opened his mouth to protest. “I don’t think that’s—”</p><p>“I don’t see why not,” Cas said over him. Dean deflated in a sigh. While Cas and Rowena walked to her tent, Dean threw up his arms. He trailed after them.</p><p>“Well, perhaps you’ll remember this for the next time you have a gathering at that grand house of yours,” Rowena was saying to him, and Dean wasn’t sure if she was after money or just chaos. Either one was pretty par for the course, in Dean’s experience. None of these people could be trusted unless you were paying them. And, even then, you had to watch your back.</p><p>And, right now, Dean had to watch Cas’. Because everyone else peddling tarot and palm readings on this strip was a phony, except for the one who’d caught Cas’ attention. They were a dying breed, but Dean still knew a real witch when he saw one.</p><p>The inside of Rowena’s tent was small and cramped. A circular oriental rug was beneath a card table covered in silks and satins, two chairs on either side. Fragrant smoke was coming from the burning incense at the back of the tent, and Dean nearly gagged when the thick scent got caught in his throat. A few carpetbags were at the wall of the tent, and Dean could see a large, ancient book poking out of the top of one.</p><p>Rowena perched herself gracefully on the far side of the table, careful not to knock over the flickering black candle and the tarot deck at her elbow. Cas sat across from her, and Dean decided to keep standing. His head brushed the top of the tent. He folded his arms, pursed his lips, and glared down at Rowena. She didn’t even notice.</p><p>Primly clearing her throat, Rowena straightened her posture and rested her elbows on the table. She held out her hands. “Now, Castiel—May I call you Castiel?” Cas nodded. “Good. Castiel, if I might have your dominant hand?”</p><p>Cas offered his right hand, palm up. Gingerly, Rowena took it in her own, pulling it a little closer to her. She bent over it, studying it. Dean rolled his eyes. This was all just a stupid gimmick.</p><p>“Very interesting,” she said, words rolling off her accented tongue.</p><p>Cas leaned in. “What is?”</p><p>“Well, it’s just… your life line here,” she said, tracing a line on Cas’ palm with a red-painted nail. “It’s odd. It sort of fades in the middle.”</p><p>“And that’s…” Cas said, not seeming in the least affected. “Strange?”</p><p>“A bit,” Rowena answered cheerfully. She gave him a reassuring smile. “But no matter. It’s a very long life line. You’ll enjoy many years.” She turned back to his palm, focusing.</p><p>Meanwhile, Cas glanced up at Dean, brow raised like this was all some kind of joke. Dean tried to play along, to give him a smile. It felt too shaky. His teeth kept gnashing until his jaw hurt.</p><p>“Oh!” Rowena exclaimed, delighted. It reclaimed both their attention. “Who’s the lucky lady, Castiel?”</p><p>Suddenly, all thought of witches flew out of Dean’s head. He felt paralyzed, his mind hiccupping. When sensation returned, his stomach started to hurt.</p><p>That couldn’t have been right.</p><p>There was no girl. Cas didn’t want a wife.</p><p>“It’s… um… Is that relevant?” Cas floundered. His eyes flashed to Dean again. Dean caught the gaze, but it was over before it really even started.</p><p>Dean clamped his jaw tighter, steeling himself against the way the tent seemed to shrink around him. There <em>was</em> a girl. Cas had basically just confirmed it. Dean wondered who she was, when Cas had met her. He wondered why Cas had never mentioned her before, especially to him.</p><p>Maybe, if he had, Dean would have been prepared for this moment. The incense wouldn’t be gagging him.</p><p>He’d spent all fucking week learning how to dance, and there was a <em>girl</em>.</p><p>He tried to tell himself it didn’t matter. He could still go through with the plan. Hell, maybe this was all the more reason. Maybe this would be the last ever Novak ball before Cas was off the market.</p><p>Dean got ahold of himself, his eyes flashing to Rowena. She was already looking at him, something curious in her stare.</p><p>“Never mind,” she said, snapping back into a bright persona. “You needn’t answer the question. But do give her my best, aye?”</p><p>Cas nodded stiffly.</p><p>“Let’s see what the relationship has in store, shall we?” Without waiting for a response, she looked down at his hand. She traced it with her fingers for a moment before her brow lined. “Well, now that…”</p><p>Despite himself, Dean’s veins ran cold. Ice touched the back of his neck. Lead filled his stomach.</p><p>“What is it?” Castiel asked, not the least bit worried. He might have even sounded a little bored.</p><p>“Well, it’s… I see tragedy,” Rowena told him. Dean tried to find the theatrics in her voice, but there were none. That wasn’t some stupid line to give to tourists. But it had to be. She was lying. Dean told himself she was lying.</p><p>“Tragedy?” Cas repeated flatly.</p><p>And maybe Dean should have been happy that it wouldn’t work out between Cas and whoever the girl was. But that was a selfish thought. Cas didn’t deserve that. Dean wanted him to be happy.</p><p>And <em>tragedy</em> definitely didn’t sound happy. He should know.</p><p>An image of blood flashed into Dean’s mind. His father on the floor, writhing and shouting in pain. There was chanting. He shook it away violently.</p><p>“Okay, we’re done,” he said, taking a charged step forward before she could answer. He shouldn’t have even allowed Cas to do this.</p><p>“A great tragedy will befall you,” Rowena told him hurriedly. “You must understand, Castiel—”</p><p>“I said, enough!” Dean yelled. He grabbed Cas’ wrist, yanking him back. “Get your damn hands off him.” Rowena sat back, aghast. Dean didn’t care.</p><p>“Dean!” Cas said, tone clipped. Dean realized he was still holding Cas’ wrist with a vice grip.</p><p>Loosening it slightly, he glared at Rowena and said, “We’re going. And you can forget being invited back to the next dinner party. Got it?”</p><p>He manhandled Cas up from the chair, ignoring his appalled looks and reprimanding <em>Dean</em>s. He ushered him out of the tent, looking over his shoulder to glower at Rowena. She stared back, eyes stormy.</p><p>“Dean, what the hell?” Cas said once they were on the other side of the tent. He ripped himself out of Dean’s grip.</p><p>“You were really gonna sit there and listen to that?” Dean yelled, pointing a finger at the tent. He forgot for a second that they were in public. A few people shot them glances as they walked by.</p><p>Cas looked around quickly, aware of their surroundings. He stepped closer, dropping his voice. “Yes, Dean, because it doesn’t matter.”</p><p>Dean scoffed. Of course, it mattered. Cas had no idea how much it <em>mattered</em>.</p><p>“A <em>tragedy</em>?” Cas said, brows shooting up to his hairline. “It’s theatrics, Dean. It isn’t real.”</p><p>Cas wasn’t worried. Cas could go on believing it was fake. And maybe it was. Maybe he was right. Rowena could have just been playing them.</p><p>“Yeah, it’s not real,” Dean said, more so trying to convince himself now. “So, you don’t have to listen to that shit!”</p><p>“<em>Dean</em>,” Cas said sternly. Dean breathed in, trying to calm himself down. “It’s fine.”</p><p>Cas drifted a little closer. Dean went stock still. He was used to Cas standing in his personal space, but not when there was a <em>girl</em>. His eyes flashed up to the petal in Cas’ hair. His fingers buzzed to reach for it. Cas said, “I’m sorry she upset you. But there is no… undefined tragedy, Dean. I’m fine.”</p><p>Dean swallowed, telling himself Cas was probably right. He was fine. They were both <em>fine</em>. And they always would be. Dean would make sure of it.</p><p>He nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right.” He tried for a smile, hoping it was convincing.</p><p>Cas gave a barely there smile in return. “Good. Now… I believe there’s a haberdashery not far from here. I’ll need a tie for tonight. Will you help me find one?”</p><p>“Okay,” Dean said. He tried not to look back at the tent. He couldn’t leave just yet, not until Rowena knew never to pull that crap on Cas again. He didn’t need Cas to start worrying. “You, uh… You go ahead. I’m pretty hungry. Saw a popcorn stand back that way.” He’d never been less hungry in his life. “I’ll meet you at the store, okay?”</p><p>Cas stared at him, like he was suspicious. Dean tried to look as innocent as possible. It probably didn’t work, but Cas decided to believe him anyway. “Okay. I’ll meet you there, Dean.”</p><p>Dean wanted to kiss him. It wasn't the first time, and it probably wouldn’t be the last, but the urge had never been so strong before. He wanted to kiss Cas.</p><p>Instead, he picked at his own hair and said, “You got—uh… You got something.”</p><p>Cas reached up, plucking out the petal and making a small <em>oh</em> sound. Dean’s chest hurt. “Thank you, Dean,” he said, looking down at the petal with pleasant eyes before letting it drift to the ground.</p><p>Then, Dean watched Cas walk away, back in the direction of the brick and mortar buildings. He waited until he was gone. Then, he let his expression darken. All tenderness left him. He turned on his heels and tore back into the tent.</p><p>Rowena was sitting there, shuffling her cards. “If you’re attempting to threaten me further, I’ll have you know, I’m armed.”</p><p>“I don’t give a shit,” he said, stepping closer to the table until he was towering over it. She looked up at him. “You stay away from him, you hear me? I don’t need you filling his head with that crap. I mean, what the fuck kind of line was that? A tragedy? Really? You say that to all your customers?”</p><p>“It wasn’t a line,” Rowena said. Airily, she added, “I simply felt it was my duty to warn the poor man—”</p><p>“Well, don’t. I see you around him again, you’ll be sorry.”</p><p>She gave a throaty laugh, standing up. “Will I? And how do you expect to make me sorry, boy?”</p><p>Dean tensed his jaw, a muscle jumping. He didn’t want to do this. But she needed to know he meant business.</p><p>Rapidly, he unbuttoned the first few buttons of his shirt and pushed it to the side, showing her his tattoo. His eyes bore into her the whole time—never looking away, never blinking. He saw the way her expression dawned with realization.</p><p>“I see,” she said tightly, turning away. She went to the incense and blew it out. “I thought all the Men of Letters were dead.”</p><p>Dean chomped down even harder on his teeth. He wasn’t a Man of Letters. He never was. Not since he was four. But it was better if she thought he had training. Hell, in a lot of ways, he did—a whole lot more than those ivory tower, prissy bookworms ever got. “They are. But, I see you step outta line, I’ll still do something about it. Got it, <em>witch</em>?”</p><p>Her expression was flinty, like an insolent child when scolded. Slowly, she dragged out the words with venom, “Loud and clear.”</p><p>Dean fixed her with a stare, deciding that was enough for now. She got the message. And, if she didn’t, he’d be back. “Good.”</p><p>“Excellent. Pleasure to meet you, then, Mister…?”</p><p>“Wesson.”</p><p>He knew it was a gamble. Rowena’s eyes flashed with shock. “I’m sorry, did you say <em>Wesson</em>?” she gaped. “Well, no wonder you don’t trust witches—after what happened to your—”</p><p>“Stay away from me,” Dean cut her off forcefully. “And stay the hell away from him.”</p><p>Before she could answer, he turned around and stomped out of the tent.</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p> </p><p>Between his run-in with Rowena, finding out that Cas was in love with somebody, and the anticipation of the ball in two hours’ time, Dean’s nerves were shot. He still needed to bathe—with actual soap—and dress, and then maybe spend at least twenty minutes downing whiskey and psyching himself out. Maybe he’d even be able to talk himself out this whole mess. It’d probably be for the best…</p><p>“Ow! Can you focus?” Jo scolded, knocking Dean out of his thoughts.</p><p>He brought apologetic eyes down to her. “Sorry,” he mumbled. She was attempting to give him one final crash course in ballroom dancing before the ball, and Dean was grateful for it, but it was probably pointless. He doubted he was any better now than he had been at the start of the week, despite both Jo and Benny’s pointers. Practice didn’t make perfect. Not for him. Not for this. His hands weren’t made to hold people.</p><p>“It’s fine,” Jo snipped in a tone that suggested it definitely wasn’t fine. “But I still have a lot of work to do before tonight, so if you’re just gonna step on my toes, let me know and we’ll stop now.” She shot him a shit-eating grin, and he knew it was meant to challenge him into trying harder. He wasn’t sure if he was in the mood to take the bait.</p><p>What would it matter, anyway? He should have never let them talk him into this. Cas would probably be engaged by the end of the night—and, even if he wasn’t, there was no point. Cas would never look twice at Dean. He couldn’t if he wanted to. And Dean was pretty sure he didn’t want to.</p><p><em>All the more reason</em>, Dean reminded himself. This was his one and only chance. He had to take it. It wouldn’t do any harm. Probably. Except the harm it’d do to his sanity.</p><p>“Yeah, no. Got it,” Dean said, shaking out. “No injuries.”</p><p>“Gee, thanks. So considerate.”</p><p>Dean clasped her hand slightly more just to show his determination. He tried not to watch his feet as he led her in the waltz around the music room. It was a little weird, dancing with no music playing, even though there was a piano right next to them. But Benny usually played for them and he was occupied with cooking for the ball. Besides, despite the fact that it wasn’t after hours like all Dean’s previous lessons, this was the only room where no one would bother them. Cas and Chuck were too busy getting dressed to intrude, and the staff was making last minute preparations. They were safe—but Jo would have to get back to work soon before she was missed.</p><p>He appreciated her taking the risk. She’d be taking an even bigger risk at the ball. So would Benny. Dean didn’t know how the hell he was going to repay them.</p><p>He stumbled a few more times, inwardly and outwardly cursing himself each time. When the dance finally ended, they stepped back from each other. He bowed, feeling awkward about it; she curtsied, making it seem natural.</p><p>“Okay,” she said, nodding and putting her hands on her hips. “That wasn’t… totally terrible.” She was lying.</p><p>Dean groaned and turned away. He plopped down on the piano bench, doubling over to rest his elbows on his knees. He scrubbed at his face. “Meaning, I suck.”</p><p>Jo scoffed. “You don’t <em>suck</em>. Sure, there’s room for improvement. Just not tonight.” She went over to her cleaning apron hanging off the back of the couch and began putting it on over her uniform dress.</p><p>“That’s great, but tonight’s the whole point!” He sat up in an attempt to stifle the embarrassment curling in his gut. It transformed into irritation. “This shouldn’t be this hard. We’ve been at it for a week!”</p><p>“Dancing’s an artform,” she said distractedly, knotting her apron around her waist. Dean waved her off as she snorted sardonically. “But, gotta say, I kinda expected a Wesson to be a little quicker on the uptake.”</p><p>Dean pinched his lips, but he wasn’t exactly able to argue. He guessed he hadn’t gotten the genius gene that seemed to run in his family, which was a shame because it probably would have come in handy right about now.</p><p>Too late, her words clicked.</p><p>At first, he thought he’d imagined them, because there was no way…</p><p>He looked up. Her hands were frozen over the knot she was tying. She’d been a little quicker at realizing her mistake.</p><p>Slowly, Dean felt every muscle in his body coil. His jaw went hard, stomach twisting. His eyes became guarded.</p><p>Jo quickly began tying again, then cleared her throat. “So, uh—good luck tonight. Guess I’ll see you there,” she said quickly, not looking over at him.</p><p>Dean stood up, fists tightening at his sides. He stalked around to the other side of the couch, keeping the furniture as a barrier between them. He thought back to every interaction they’ve had since his arrival in Amherst, looking for clues. He’d been so fucking stupid—and he was still being stupid.</p><p>Because he told himself there had to be an explanation.</p><p>“Jo,” he said, voice firm.</p><p>She visibly forced herself to look up at him. He searched her face.</p><p>Maybe she was a witch. If she was, she did a damn good job at hiding it. And, if she’d known who he was this whole time, why hadn’t she made her move? He should be dead by now.</p><p>“How do you know my family?”</p><p>Jo pulled her shoulders back, standing straighter. “What?” she tried. “I don’t. I was just saying—”</p><p>“Cut the crap.”</p><p>Her expression shuttered at once.</p><p>Dean took a charged step forward. “Who are you?”</p><p>“Dean—”</p><p>The door opened. They both jumped, Dean’s heart skipping so fast, it almost hurt. His head snapped toward the door, expecting a fight, expecting Jo to have back up.</p><p>Instead, Benny walked through, smiling and wiping his hand on his apron. “Alright, then. Chicken’s in the oven so I got a little time. Where are we?”</p><p>Dean swallowed, telling himself to relax, but only fractionally. If he relaxed too much, he might fall to his knees in exhaustion—because he was a little strung out by all the revelations of the day. He could feel Jo looking at him, gaze skittish.</p><p>When neither of them answered, Benny must have read the room. His expression shifted into curiosity. “Everything alright in here?” he asked, looking between them.</p><p>Dean turned to Jo, gaze becoming wary and threatening again.</p><p>“Yeah,” Jo said, not looking back. “We’re done. I was just… getting back to work.” Without waiting for a response, she fled from the room, practically shoving against Benny as she left.</p><p>Benny turned around to watch her go, brows popped. He swiveled back toward Dean questioningly.</p><p>Dean didn’t say anything. He stared at the spot where Jo had disappeared. Part of him wanted to give her the benefit of the doubt—but he knew better. He wasn’t <em>that</em> stupid. He needed to find out who she was, and he needed to be ready.</p><p>“So, are we… all set for tonight?” Benny asked unsurely. It wasn’t really what he wanted to say.</p><p>Tonight. Damnit. Dean never expected dancing with Cas would become the least of his worries. This was probably a sign he should call the whole thing off.</p><p>“No, uh—yeah,” he amended. He had to go through with it. It was his only shot. He looked at Benny, forcing calm. “All set.”</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p> </p><p>Dean felt ridiculous.</p><p>He was in Benny’s suit again, the one that was too big for him. But he guessed it didn’t matter how stupid he looked since no one could see his face. The mask he’d found in town covered everything except his eyes, and it was also pretty cheap-looking compared to the painted porcelain, lace, and feathers of the ball’s guests.</p><p>He breathed shakily as he stepped into the ballroom. The candles in the grand chandelier and the wall sconces were lit up, casting the room in a golden glow. The long dining table had been pushed against the wall, and it was currently laden with cupcakes and wine in fine crystal. Some of the guests were standing along the sidelines, talking and laughing, many having removed their masks as they rested. Most of the people in the room were dancing to the sounds of the string quartet rebounding off the high ceiling.</p><p>Dean scanned the crowd, stomach fluttering as he realized any of the women there could be the one Cas had his eye on.</p><p>Two people stepped into the room on either of Dean’s sides. He glanced at Jo, who was dressed in a fine white, floor-length dress. A feathered mask covered the top part of her face, and if Dean didn’t know better, he’d say she was born into a life of luxury. He caught her eye briefly, surprised she’d even showed up. Jo looked back at him, eyes hard.</p><p>He turned to his other side, where Benny was in another worn suit, except he filled it out a lot better than Dean did. His blue eyes were bright beneath his copper-colored mask.</p><p>“You spot him yet?” Benny asked, prompting Dean to look back at the twirling dancers. His cheeks dimpled in a frown when he didn’t see Cas. But then, as the people shifted and parted, Dean caught sight of a familiar head of dark brown hair and broad shoulders. He couldn’t see his face, or the mask he was wearing, but Dean knew with complete certainty it was Cas.</p><p>Even if he wasn’t able to pick Cas out in a crowd of a thousand, the wings were a dead give away. They folded down his spine, the feathers framing his shoulders perfectly. They tapered out into two slim points over the small of his back.</p><p>“Got him,” Dean said, and Benny and Jo leaned in slightly to follow his line of vision.</p><p>Keeping his sight set on Cas, Dean wove through the dancers. Benny and Jo followed, spreading out slightly so they wouldn’t be seen together. Dean did his best to breathe, but he was all too aware of Zachariah hovering nearby the refreshments table, which made him nervous. He had no idea where Chuck was, which made him even <em>more</em> nervous. He tried to remind himself that he was in disguise. No one would recognize him. Not even Cas.</p><p>The song ended, and the dancers stepped back from one another. The men bowed their heads; the women curtsied. Dean eyed the woman Cas had been dancing with: a short brunette in a lace mask. That could be <em>her</em>. He never thought he’d be jealous of a person whose face he couldn’t even see.</p><p>When the song ended, the men and women organized themselves into a line. Dean’s heart jumped. He knew this was his chance; he just hadn’t thought it would come so soon. He spotted Jo, who shot him a meaningful look before joining the line of women. Benny remained on the outskirts with those who stayed with their partners.</p><p>Dean’s throat worked. He moved across from Jo. Quickly, he glanced down the line toward Cas. There were four men between them.</p><p>Another song that prominently featured the violin began to play. The men bowed to their partners, and it took Dean half a second to realize he should do the same. He tried his best to pretend like he knew what he was doing by watching the other couples, but he already felt like he was fumbling a lot. Plus, his mind was a little preoccupied with about a hundred different things at once.</p><p>He stepped backward when the other men did, and the women circled them before going back into position. The men moved forward, holding up their palms. The women did the same, pressing their hands together to circle around each other. Dean’s eyes kept seeking out Cas, and he wondered when Cas had learned this dance—because he seemed to know it well. In fact, everyone except Dean seemed to know the choreography as if they were born with the knowledge. Even Jo.</p><p>“Surprised you showed your face,” Dean told her as they circled each other. He was probably an asshole for the bite of his tone, but he couldn’t help it. He had no idea who she was. For all he knew, she was an enemy.</p><p>“Guess I’m not as smart as I look,” Jo answered quickly. And then, more seriously, “Look, I said I’d help, so here I am.”</p><p>Dean didn’t know what her game was.</p><p>As the dance progressed, the other men and women in the line were coming together for a waltz. He met Jo in the middle, not caring that he was stepping on her toes.</p><p>“Watch it,” she hissed.</p><p>“Who are you?”</p><p>“Not here.”</p><p>He could feel his blood heating up. “Bullshit. Yes, here.”</p><p>It was too late. The partners were changing. He did his best to keep up, telling himself to focus on Cas for now. He did shoot her one last glare first, just to make sure she wasn’t up to anything nefarious.</p><p>The men and women walked around each other, picking new partners in the line seemingly at random, but Dean knew there must have been some kind of rule he wasn’t aware of. Cas ended up two down from him, and the dance repeated.</p><p>The woman Dean had been paired with didn’t seem too happy with his lack of skill—or maybe it was his lack of interest. Because his eyes were practically glued to Cas now. Cas was in a black suit and the blue cravat Dean had picked out for him in town, a diamond stickpin in its center. The ivory mask was on his face.</p><p>The partners were changing again. If Dean hadn’t known it was going to happen, he would have missed it in the shuffle—but he saw Jo step out of the women’s line and blend into the surrounding dancers. He saw Benny quickly join the men’s line, leaving the dance with two more men than women.</p><p>While each of the other men found their partner, Dean positioned himself next to Cas at the edge of the line. Two empty spaces were before them. For a second, everything froze. Dean did his damnedest to keep his hands from trembling.</p><p>He glanced down the line—at the men and women trying to figure out how this had happened. All eyes were on him and Cas. He didn’t linger on them for too long. Slowly, he turned to Cas. Cas looked back, blue eyes quizzical under his mask. His head was tilted to the side. Dean’s chest bloomed with fondness—and maybe that was all he needed to beat back the fear of Cas inevitably declining him.</p><p>Still aware of the glances they were attracting, Dean bowed low to Cas. He flourished out his hand in offering as theatrically as he could. Around him, people laughed at the joke. He lifted his eyes, seeing the flicker of an amused smirk that Cas was trying to fight back.</p><p>Cas slid his hand into Dean’s—and, if Dean was going to sell this as a joke, he was damn sure going to sell it. He lifted his mask slightly and kissed Cas’ knuckles. It earned him another laugh from the onlookers.</p><p>Cas moved to join the women’s line, and then the dance commenced. Dean promptly forgot about everyone else in the room. He watched Cas circle him, catching a whiff of his cologne in the process. Dean could feel his pulse in his throat. He was certain his cheeks were red under his mask, so he was grateful no one could see them.</p><p>When it was his turn to step forward, he tried to remember what he’d learned from the last two dances. He held his palm up, touching it to Cas’. His hand was a little bigger, the tips of his fingers extending just slightly above Cas’. And Cas’ palm was cooler than Dean thought it would be after the exertion from dancing.</p><p>Cas always had cold hands. Dean didn’t know why, but that knowledge made him ache.</p><p>Some of his anxiety came back during the waltz. When Cas’ hand was pressed to Dean’s shoulder. When Dean’s hand was on Cas’ hip. When they were swaying together. He kept tripping up, the toes of his shoes bumping into Cas’.</p><p>“Let me lead,” Cas whispered to him, apparently taking mercy on him. Dean didn’t want to talk, afraid his voice might give him away. He only nodded and relinquished control. The waltz went a little smoother after that. He followed Cas’ footwork, even though he had to glance down a few times to make sure he was doing it right. He grinned bashfully when he realized he was getting the hang of it. When he looked back up, Cas’ gaze was waiting for him.</p><p>There was the ghost of a smile on Cas’ face. It was more in his eyes than on his lips. Dean didn’t want to think too hard on it, but it didn’t look like the kind of smile someone gave when they were laughing at a joke. It was much softer, breathtaking and flickering—the same way his eyes were flickering across Dean’s face, and for a moment, Dean was scared that Cas could see right through his mask.</p><p>In truth, Dean didn’t really know what to make of any of it. He just couldn’t stop staring. He felt adrift in Cas’ eyes. Lost to the world. There was nothing else. Nothing but Cas and the soaring music, and the swooping, dizzying feeling in Dean’s chest. Being in Cas’ arms felt more like flying than dancing.</p><p>And the dance ended too quickly.</p><p>The music faded out. Dean became aware of the people around them again. Down the line, the men and women parted, bowing and curtseying. And Dean didn’t want to let go. He wanted to savor this for a little while longer, because this was the first and last time he’d ever dance with Cas and now it was over.</p><p>They parted. Cas bowed to him. Heart hammering, Dean bowed in return.</p><p>When they straightened out, Dean wasn’t really sure what to do next. It didn’t look like Cas did, either. They stared at each other as a different song started up.</p><p>And then Cas opened his mouth to speak. Dean never found out what he was going to say. A woman placed her hand on Cas’ arm, looking for a dance, and Cas looked around at her. And whatever had been flying inside of Dean came crashing down.</p><p>He swallowed hard, telling himself this was always going to happen and he had no right to be disappointed.</p><p>He turned away and made for the exit.</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p> </p><p>The ball was over. Dean had seen the last of the coaches pull out of the drive over a half hour ago. He wondered if tonight had been the night, if Cas’ match had been chosen, if there’d be an announcement in the coming days.</p><p>Dean had changed out of his borrowed suit, stashing it somewhere until he could give it back to Benny. It was late, but he was too anxious to sleep. He sat outside the carriage house, on the bottom step of the stairs leading up to his apartment. He toed at the grass with his boot, trying his best to ignore the way the sweet-scented spring breeze chapped his skin. His fingers were so numb, he could barely hold his cigarette. The smoke curled from the tip, dissolving long before it reached the unfurling leaves on the trees. The moon was a bright round disk hanging in the sky.</p><p>The gravel of the carriage path crunched underfoot from somewhere ahead. Dean looked up, finding a familiar shape walking toward him. Cas was only a shadow, broad shoulders inside a suit jacket. His hands were shoved into his pockets. When he came closer, his cravat was untied, the fabric still hanging around his neck. The first button of his shirt was undone, too. His hair was rumpled, face lined with exhaustion. His eyes were soft.</p><p>“Hello, Dean,” he said when he was close enough.</p><p>Dean swallowed hard. Fear stole over him that he’d been right: Cas had promised himself to someone. “Hey,” he said, barely able to get the word out.</p><p>Cas lingered momentarily before closing the space and sitting on the step next to Dean. Without a word, Dean scooted a little closer to the edge to give him room. Their bodies were still touching from shoulder to knee. Dean thought about the way their chests had brushed when they danced, the feeling of Cas’ hand in his. He could still feel pressure on his arm where Cas had been holding him as if it were a brand on his skin.</p><p>Dean offered him the cigarette pinched between his fingers. “Fun night?”</p><p>Cas took it, their knuckles brushing, sending a thrill through Dean. Dean watched the way Cas’ dry lips wrapped around it, watched him pull in a breath. Smoke furled out on the exhale. “It had its moments.”</p><p>Selfishly, Dean hoped that dancing with the mysterious stranger was one of the highlights.</p><p>“How was your night?” Cas asked.</p><p>Dean looked down at his shoes, shrugged. “Had its moments,” he muttered.</p><p>Silence fell between them for a long time. Cas’ chin was tilted up to the stars. They reflected in his eyes. Dean realized he’d been studying Cas’ profile.</p><p>“Dean,” Cas said suddenly, and this was it. Maybe it was for the best. Dean didn’t have a chance, anyway.</p><p>“Yeah?”</p><p>“You have to work on your forward progressive if you want to fool anyone. It’s a simple move.”</p><p>Belatedly, Dean realized his mouth was agape. Shame heated his cheeks and spread across the back of his neck. He blinked rapidly, trying to right himself. “How’d you know it was me?”</p><p>Cas’ eyes slid to him, looking at him with turning his head. He said, “I knew.”</p><p>Dean was floundering. “It was a pretty good disguise.”</p><p>Cas hummed in the affirmative. “Yes, it was. But I knew.” And then, in a whisper, “I’ll always know—” He cut himself off quickly, looking down at his lap. Dean’s heart was hammering. His lips burned with the want to kiss Cas.</p><p>“I assume you had your fun dancing with debutants,” Cas said, tapping the ash off the tip of the cigarette. “Apologies for the interruption, though it did seem to entertain the others.”</p><p>Dean bit down on the need to call Cas a dumbass, to tell him he didn’t give a shit about anyone else there, that dancing with him hadn’t been a fluke. But the day he’d had really didn’t need any more drama. Maybe tomorrow might need something to spice it up instead.</p><p>After clearing his throat, Dean asked, “So, uh… No wife tonight?” He tried to sound casual.</p><p>“Not tonight,” Cas said.</p><p>Dean did his best not to seem relieved. He failed miserably. Before he could stop it, he heard himself breathe out, “Good.” Cas looked at him, eyes wide in what must have been shock. Dean’s stomach flopped. “I mean, for you—since you don’t want… a partner or whatever.” God, Dean wished Cas would confirm that.</p><p>“Of course.”</p><p>Dean didn’t believe him.</p><p>They sat in silence for a long moment, and Dean could hear his heart pounding in his ears. He tried not to read too much into Cas’ response. He thought back to the barely there smile on Cas’ lips as they danced.</p><p>A smile—not because of some gag. Cas had known it was him…</p><p>He was knocked out of his thoughts when Cas elbowed him to return the cigarette. Dean’s eyes flashed down to the smoke curling up from Cas’ long fingers. His skin was cold when Dean’s hand brushed against them, but Cas was the one who shivered. Dean’s eyes flickered across his face. He watched Cas press his lips together.</p><p>“Goodnight, Dean,” he said softly, but he didn’t move for a long time. When he did, he stood up and took a few strides toward the house without looking back. He stopped short, fists forming at his sides. Dean stared after him, a weight on his chest and a lump in his throat.</p><p>“Dean,” Cas said then, and Dean wasn’t really sure what to expect. Cas knew it had been Dean behind that mask. Maybe he’d only come out there to reject him.</p><p>Cas looked over his shoulder, expression set firmly. “I don’t want a wife.”</p><p>Dean blinked, dumbfounded.</p><p>Cas sighed through his nose. He tilted his head backward to look up at the stars. “I wouldn’t… Maybe I wouldn’t mind a partner.”</p><p>It took a second for his words to process. Dean’s eyes were tracing the line of Cas’ throat. His lips parted, betraying the tripping of his heart. “Oh,” he heard himself say. He had no idea what Cas meant. He didn’t want marriage, but he wanted <em>something</em>. Someone.</p><p>Cas lowered his face; his eyes bore into Dean, and fear was thinly veiled in them. And Dean didn’t know why.</p><p>Dean felt dizzy. He thought of the mysterious woman Rowena had mentioned—but the explanation didn’t sit right with Dean. He remembered what Benny had said weeks ago about Cas not being interested in women. Foolishly, Dean felt hope buzzing along skin. “Is there anyone you got in mind?” As soon as the words were out, he felt like he’d been punched in the throat.</p><p>Whatever was wound tightly in Cas’ body suddenly eased. He averted his eyes to the ground.</p><p>Dean both desperately wanted to ask who it was and to beg Cas to never tell him. Because what if there really was a woman? Dean didn’t think he’d ever be able to contain the sadness that would crack open his heart like yoke.</p><p>And what if there <em>wasn’t</em> a woman? What then? Dean had never been so fearful in his life, and that was saying something.</p><p>Cas looked up. The blue of his irises was shadowed in the night. His eyes were turned downward in what might have been sorrow. The orange glow of the candles in the manor’s windows flickered out one by one. He said, voice low and painted with melancholy, “Goodnight, Mr. Wesson.”</p><p>Dean watched him walk away for a long time. He brought his cigarette to his lips, and pictured it held in Cas’ mouth. Around it, he muttered, “Goodnight, Mr. Novak.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>thanks for reading! hopefully i was able to throw you off with the MoL reveal instead of dean being a hunter. i'm trying to keep you all on your toes lmao</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Chapter 11</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>2020</strong>
</p><p>Castiel attempted to flatten his hair with his palm. All it did was bounce back up, the waves seeming even more unruly than when he began. His eyes flickered to Dean’s hair gel on the right side of the bathroom sink, and he briefly wondered if he should try to use it. He decided against it. Today wasn’t the day for experimentation. Today was his first day of work.</p><p>Taking in one last deep breath at his reflection, he turned and stepped out of the bathroom.</p><p>The Winchesters were at the breakfast table, two steaming mugs of coffee nearby. The coffee pot sat half-full in the machine, a box of strawberry Pop Tarts next to it. Castiel frowned forlornly at the box. The last time he’d tried to eat one of those, he’d burned his tongue on the magma-hot filling. He wished Dean had made a real breakfast instead.</p><p>But Dean, brows furrowed in concentration and a highlighter sticking out between his lips, was staring down at a mess of papers. Sam’s stack was more orderly, and he had his laptop open in front of him. Without looking, he reached for his Pop Tart and took a bite, scattering crumbs on the paper.</p><p>It was a quiet morning, likely because they were all so damn tired. Dean and Sam had been up all night searching the internet for any mention of the Aquarian star and the so-called Men of Letters. Castiel had tried to help, but he was nowhere near as skilled at “Googling” as the brothers. He missed books.</p><p>After hours of finding nothing but contradicting, piecemeal information, Sam had fallen asleep with his cheek smushed against his notepad, and Castiel and Dean had crawled into bed at around four in the morning.</p><p>“Hey,” Sam greeted. “You ready for the first day?”</p><p>Castiel supposed he was as ready as he’d ever be. “I hope so.”</p><p>Sam glanced up, offering a quick but reassuring smile. “You’ll do great.”</p><p>Brightened, Castiel looked at Dean, just in time to see him make a face that Castiel intended to ignore—just like he’d been ignoring the small, subtle comments Dean had been making over the last twenty-four hours about his intention to have a job. Castiel was certain he was reading too much into them, anyway. Of course, Dean was supportive of him.</p><p>Castiel poured himself a mug of coffee and spooned in a healthy amount of sugar. “Don’t tell me you’re still looking,” he reproved.</p><p>The brothers glanced up in unison. “Nah,” Dean said around the highlighter. He spit it out while Castiel pulled out the chair adjacent to him and sat. “Just going over the stuff we researched last night. Sounds like Sammy found a way to piece everything together.”</p><p>That sounded unbelievable. Sam was extremely intelligent, but putting together a coherent narrative from the disjointed fragments they’d turned over was likely impossible, in Castiel’s opinion. Castiel’s expression pinched in perplexity. He swiveled his head toward Sam.</p><p>“Yeah, maybe,” Sam said with a shrug. “It’s kinda hard to believe.”</p><p>“Right, like everything else about this situation is easy to swallow,” Dean answered. He nodded his chin to his brother. “Tell ‘im what you found.” His tone and words suggested Sam had already given him the details. Castiel sat a little taller to show interest.</p><p>“Alright,” Sam sighed like he was preparing to launch into a long-winded explanation. “So, turns out the Aquarian star we found was the emblem for the Men of Letters.” He turned his laptop around to face Castiel, showing him a digital picture of the symbol. The title of the webpage read in swirling font, <em>The Secret History of Witches</em>.</p><p>Castiel raised a dubious brow and sipped his coffee. “Witches?” He cast a look at Dean.</p><p>Dean only gestured out his hands and pulled a face that seemed to communicate, <em>apparently</em>.</p><p>That was fantastical, even for them. Surely, Dean didn’t think he was a witch in his past life. Of course, he did seem to always have herb concoctions in his apartment, but that didn’t mean anything. Though, he also had an affinity for strange symbols—but that was baseless superstition! Dean wasn’t a witch. For starters, there was no such thing.</p><p>“Yeah, so,” Sam continued on, unimpeded, “I spent the night connecting the dots between a few blogs and websites, and a Reddit thread about pseudohistory.” Castiel didn’t know what a Reddit was, but it seemed unimportant. “Looks like the Men of Letters was this underground society based in the heart of the country—present day Kansas. It was started in the colonies during the witch trials in the 1600s, and its members were pretty high up people. We’re talking politicians, army generals, church officials—later, business moguls.”</p><p>“Rich people,” Dean amended.</p><p>Sam gestured to him with an upturned palm. “Anyway. They weren’t witches themselves, but they wanted to stop the public hysteria that went on in places like Salem. <em>And</em>—” he held up one finger, “get this: to keep the <em>real</em> witches in line.”</p><p>Castiel wasn’t certain whether or not he should be laughing. His gaze flickered to the digital clock above the stove. He still had five or so more minutes to entertain this delusion. Or maybe it was going somewhere—somewhere sane.</p><p>Still, he had the same gnawing feeling as he did the previous night, the one that asked him what all of this was for. If stories such as this one didn’t convince Dean that obsessing about the past was a fool’s errand, he didn’t know what would.</p><p>“Get it?” Dean asked. “Aquarian star? Mortal world meets the mystical or whatever?”</p><p>Sam nodded. “Makes sense.”</p><p>“Does it?” Castiel interjected. Dean <em>couldn’t</em> be taking this seriously. He never led some ridiculous double-life. Castiel would know. For all Dean’s secrets, this was just too preposterous. Castiel <em>knew</em> him. This wasn’t him.</p><p>Something cold pressed onto the skin of the back of his neck. Phantom fingers. Icy breath. He shook it away.</p><p>“The last mention anyone can find of them was in the 1840s,” Sam was finishing. “After that—” He sat back heavily and blew out his cheeks, like the history of the Men of Letters’ downfall could be anyone’s guess.</p><p>Castiel blinked, looking between Sam and Dean. He waited for more, but neither of them spoke. So, as it turned out, this story <em>hadn’t</em> been going anywhere meaningful, after all.</p><p>He turned back to Dean. “You don’t believe this?”</p><p>Dean puckered his lips and shook his head. “I dunno what the hell I believe. But it makes sense.”</p><p>Castiel scoffed. He really wished they’d stop saying that. “It doesn’t make—”</p><p>“And is the existence of some magical Illuminati really so hard to believe?” Dean powered on. “I mean, look at us! If I was anybody else, I’d call us crazy.”</p><p>Castiel rolled his eyes, his head with it. “I’m aware of our situation, Dean, but major theological queries concerning the afterlife doesn’t mean there’s such a thing as <em>witches</em>.”</p><p>“How do you know?” Castiel didn’t know why Dean was suddenly getting so defensive.</p><p>He sighed, not wanting to argue. There was a bundle of nerves sitting in his gut, and he wanted to blame that on starting his job, but it hadn’t been there before this conversation. “Do you remember anything about these Men of Letters?”</p><p>Dean paused. He averted his eyes and shook his head.</p><p>“Okay,” Castiel said levelly.</p><p>“Well, I’m not remembering a lot, Cas. Doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.”</p><p>They were getting nowhere. Castiel needed to put an end to this. “It doesn’t matter. You weren’t part of some secret society, Dean. You would have told me.”</p><p>“You sure about that?”</p><p>He knew Dean didn’t <em>actually</em> mean that, but it made Castiel freeze. His fingers tingled.</p><p>“And, if it’s not real, how did I just pull the name <em>Men of Letters</em> out of my ass? Especially paired with that symbol.”</p><p>Castiel’s mind turned around and around, coming up with nothing. But he <em>had</em> to deny it. What Dean was suggesting just wasn’t plausible. Dean had secrets, but he never <em>lied</em> to Castiel. “Perhaps you saw it somewhere else.”</p><p>“No, <em>I</em> didn’t. Dean <em>Wesson</em> did.”</p><p>Castiel ground his teeth, wanting to remind Dean that they were the same person.</p><p>Dean shrugged out his arms again on top of the table before waving at his chest. “You’re the one who said I had a damn tattoo of the thing. <em>And</em> you said I was rich, right? Well, 1840s. Right around the time I woulda stopped being rich. And, even if the Men of Letters actually didn’t have anything to do with witches, maybe it was still something! I dunno, Cas. I don’t like it, either, but what if this is the reason this is happening to us? What if something bad happened and I repressed it?”</p><p>Castiel jutted out his jaw, not wanting to hear it. He turned back to Sam, hoping to find <em>some</em> level of sanity there. “These Reddits and blogs,” he asked, “Are they verified? How do we know we can trust this information?”</p><p>Sam thinned his lips and admitted, “Well, it’s the internet. Anyone can say anything.”</p><p>Castiel nodded and gestured with his palm, because that settled it.</p><p>Apparently, Dean wasn’t in agreement. He said, “I’m just trying to connect the dots.”</p><p>“Why?” Castiel asked quickly, eyes snapping back to Dean.</p><p>Dean appeared taken aback. When he recovered, he shared a quick look with Sam across the table and licked his lips. “<em>Why</em>?” he repeated incredulously.</p><p>He could have blamed it on his lack of sleep, but, in truth, Castiel was just weary. “Yes. Why, Dean? Why do you need to know what happened? <em>Whatever</em> happened, we’re here. Now. We’ve been given a second chance, and I don’t want to waste it reliving the past.”</p><p>Dean’s expression flashed. “You’re telling me you’re not even a little bit curious? Because I, for one, don’t want this hanging over us for the rest of our lives. And who knows? Maybe our next lives, too!”</p><p>Castiel <em>was</em> curious, if he admitted it, but he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t admit anything. “No,” he said firmly. “I’m not curious.” He didn’t add that Dean having a past that he never mentioned to Castiel would <em>hang over</em> them much longer than never finding out the truth.</p><p>“Why are you being so stubborn?” Dean argued.</p><p>“Why are <em>you</em>?” He didn’t have time for this. He had work. Placing both hands on the table, he stood up. “You want the truth, Dean? There are no witches. You weren’t part of any magical society. I would know. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get to my job—in the real world.”</p><p>He and Dean stared each other down, Castiel intent on not blinking first.</p><p>It was Sam who broke the contest. “Uh, yeah—You know what, Cas, maybe you’re right,” he said with a forced chuckle. “Guess my brain’s a little fried from like, three hours of sleep.” He folded his laptop and stood up to put it in his backpack. “I better get going, too. I got a class in a half hour. <em>Dean</em>,” he added pointedly, as if Castiel was stupid and didn’t know what Sam was trying to do—even thought he did appreciate it. “Didn’t you say you wanted to head to the library to work on your capstone before class?”</p><p>Dean’s jaw was still set, but he nodded and stood up, too. “Yeah.” He half-looked at Castiel. “You need a ride to work?”</p><p>“No,” Castiel hadn’t meant to answer so quickly, but he needed time alone. “Thank you. It’s… in the opposite direction of the college. It’d be more convenient if I walked.”</p><p>The gas station wasn’t far, but perhaps a part of Castiel hoped Dean would insist. Instead, Dean just nodded again, more curtly than before, and said, “Okay.”</p><p>Castiel lingered momentarily, fists flexing and unflexing unsurely at his sides. He ducked past Dean to grab his coat from the rack next to the front door.</p><p>Sam shouldered his backpack. “Good luck today, Cas.”</p><p>Castiel straightened out his collar, pushing a grateful smile. “Thank you, Sam.” His eyes flickered to Dean expectantly. There was still tension hanging between them.</p><p>As though Dean got the message, he gave a tight-lipped smile and said, “Yeah. Knock ‘em dead.”</p><p>Castiel withered. He didn’t like the way they’d left things. It’d likely follow him like a shadow for the rest of the day, and he didn’t want that for himself or Dean. He wondered if he should apologize, but he didn’t know what for.</p><p>Instead, he paced closer to Dean and pressed a gentle kiss to the corner of his mouth. “I’ll see you tonight,” he said softly.</p><p>At least, that time, Dean’s smile was marginally more genuine. “You bet.”</p><p>Castiel’s intestines were in knots. He stalked to the front door, not looking back while he stepped through, though he could feel Dean’s eyes on him. When it was closed behind him, it was a miracle that he didn’t collapse against the wood.</p><p>Castiel breathed out, centering himself.</p><p>It didn’t matter what Dean said. Castiel was right: there was no need to dredge up the past, especially that of a fabrication. Dean would never deceive him. He trusted Dean. That was all.</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p> </p><p>“Three forty-seven is your change,” Castiel said, dropping the notes and coins into the woman’s upturned palm over the counter. He repeated the words his boss had taught him to say during his initial training: “Thank you for shopping with us.”</p><p>The woman didn’t say anything in return. She simply grabbed her paper bag laden with candy bars and beef jerky and left the store, the buzzer over the door humming on her way out.</p><p>Castiel breathed out in relief, deciding that experience went rather well. Nora seemed to agree. She said, “Perfect. You’re a natural.” She was standing over his shoulder, the smile on her face and in her kind eyes telling Castiel that she was being genuine. Warmth and pride spread out inside of him, even though it was a relatively simple task he’d just completed.</p><p>When he’d first arrived at work, Nora had given him a basic run-down of the store—the secured items behind the counter and where the keys were, what types of items were in each aisle, how to clean the inside glass of the refrigerator section, how to put the instant coffee grounds into the industrial coffee makers, and so on. When the first few customers of his shift came in, Nora taught him how to work the cash register. He’d been nervous when the candy-jerky woman walked in and Nora told him to ring her up by himself, but he knew now it was without reason.</p><p>He had a job—and he was fairly decent at it so far. He couldn’t wait to tell Dean. Dean would be glad that Castiel was able to find his own way in this century. That Castiel wouldn’t have to rely on him for everything.</p><p>That was a good thing. He didn’t want to suffocate Dean, or to make Dean realize he was more trouble than he was worth and leave again. Or, Castiel supposed, he was the one who would have to leave, considering the townhouse was Dean’s home. But Castiel didn’t have to think about that. Because he had a job now. He was starting a life of his own.</p><p>He was proud of that. Dean would be proud of him, too. Castiel knew he would because he knew Dean, no matter what a “blog” on the internet said. Anything telling him otherwise wasn’t worth dwelling on.</p><p>The buzzer over the door went off again, and two burly men in construction gear stepped inside. Castiel stood up a little taller, prepared to aid them if they needed assistance. “Good morning,” he said, holding up his hand in greeting. The men shot him half-hearted but friendly greetings in return before going about their business.</p><p>“Hey, Castiel, I’ll take care of these guys if they finish up quickly,” Nora said. “Can you head into the inventory closet and get a box of Marlboros? We’re running low.”</p><p>“Of course,” Castiel told her. He started around the counter, only to stop when she began speaking again.</p><p>“Oh, and, uh—the closet door’s broken. You can only open it from the outside, so be sure to prop it open, okay?”</p><p>Castiel nodded to show her he’d understood. He walked toward the back of the store, past the construction men joking and laughing while they filled up Styrofoam cups of coffee from the machine.</p><p>The inventory room was tucked away in a small hallway across from the bathrooms and ATM. The tin back door, leading to the cracked parking lot behind the gas station, was right next to it, allowing the chill from the outside to seep in through the bottom. Castiel pushed open the heavy closet door and felt around on the wall for the light switch. The naked bulb above burst into life. It was a weak light, hardly able to illuminate the gloom within. It flickered and hummed every so often as though it were just barely clinging to life.</p><p>Castiel kicked a crate in front of the door to keep it open, like Nora had instructed, and stepped into the closet. The small, concrete space was freezing, so much so that he could see his breath fog in front of his face. He rubbed his hands together for warmth and peered around. On the metal shelves were sealed cardboard boxes of potato chips, packages of toilet paper, and stacked cans of beer and soda. A mop was propped up against the corner inside a black bucket. Cleaning supplies and bleach were stored on top of the employee lockers.</p><p>The lightbulb fizzled momentarily, sending the room into relative darkness but for the light pooling in from the hallway. It sputtered back into life in the time it took Castiel to blink.</p><p>He spotted the box containing the cartons of cigarettes and went to retrieve it. For the briefest moment, he considered pocketing a pack of them, just to steady the nervous energy that had been twisting in his gut since Nora had begun training him.</p><p>Or before that. If he were being honest, the feeling was prevalent since that morning, since the Winchesters began talking about the Men of Letters.</p><p>He rattled his head, forcing the thoughts away. He reminded himself not to dwell. It didn’t matter, after all. The past was the past and, even if the so-called Men of Letters did exist, they had nothing to do with him and Dean. There was no use in looking into it further, because they had a new life now. Together. They ought to focus on that. Whatever else was unimportant and served no purpose.</p><p>He just wished Dean would understand that.</p><p>Quickly, Castiel gathered a few of the cartons packaged together in a clear, thin film of plastic and left the room. He toed the crate back into the hall and flipped the light switch on his way out. The door clattered heavily behind him.</p><p>The construction workers were still by the coffee machine. One of them finished telling a joke that must have been hilarious judging from how uproariously the other laughed. The second man held up his fist and said, “Nice one!” The first man knocked their fists together. Castiel watched the exchange with fascination, wondering why the men had done that. Perhaps that was common among the people of this time period.</p><p>Nora was still behind the counter when Castiel got back. “I found them.” He placed the packages down and turned to retrieve the keys that opened up the casing which housed the other cigarettes.</p><p>“Nice work!” Nora told him.</p><p>Castiel froze, thinking about what he’d just seen the construction workers do. Was he expected to do the same?</p><p>Stiffly, he held up his fist to Nora.</p><p>She paused her task of unwrapping the cartons to shoot him a perplexed look. Castiel got the feeling she didn’t know of the ritual, either.</p><p>“You, um…” he said unsurely. “I think you’re supposed to bump your fist against mine.”</p><p>Her eyes flashed with humored shock, and she gave a light laugh. “Right,” she said, visibly attempting to fight back a smile. “Silly me.” She touched her fist to his, then jerked back her elbow and splayed her fingers while making an explosive-type sound with her mouth. Castiel had no idea why she’d done that. The men hadn’t. But it was delightful.</p><p>The two of them shelved the cigarette cartons together, and Castiel rang up the construction workers for their coffee and the packages of Entenmann’s donuts.</p><p>Afterward, Nora suddenly said, “Shoot, what time is it?” She looked at her wristwatch, and Castiel found his eyes straying to the clock on the wall. It was just before lunchtime.</p><p>“Castiel, I hate to do this to you on your first day, but are you alright on your own for a little bit?” Nora asked. Castiel’s stomach sloshed again, but he kept his expression neutral. Nora bit at her lip remorsefully. “It’s just—I have to go pick up Tanya from daycare and drop her off at my ex’s.” She punctuated it with an eye roll. “Because his truck broke down <em>again</em>.”</p><p>In truth, Castiel wasn’t certain he was ready for that. His tasks weren’t difficult, but maybe that was because he had Nora to swoop in and fix things should anything go wrong. But, then again, he assumed he was more capable than an infant. Nora had shown him pictures of Tanya on her phone during a lull in between customers that morning. Castiel wouldn’t keep her from her daughter, or her responsibilities.</p><p>She was trusting him.</p><p>“I won’t let you down,” he promised.</p><p>Nora breathed out in relief. “Thank you.” She walked around the counter, saying, “I shouldn’t be too long, but call me if you need <em>anything</em>.”</p><p>“I will,” he said, and felt he should assure her, “because I know how to do that. Call people. With a cell phone.”</p><p>She gave him an empathetic type of smile. “That’s great,” she said. “Well, I’ll be back in about a half hour. Thanks again!”</p><p>Instinct told him to bow his head in farewell, like any good gentleman would do when departing a lady—but Dean had told him that people didn’t do such things anymore. Catching himself halfway, he turned it into a nod. “Take your time.”</p><p>Nora rushed to the back of the store and out the backdoor.</p><p>And then Castiel was alone. He breathed out, peering about the quiet, colorful store. The television in the corner of the room was playing the news without any sound. Another screen hanging above the door was divided into four black and white squares, showing the inside and outside of the store at different angles. Castiel’s severe expression stared back at him.</p><p>He wasn’t certain how much time went by before a car pulled up to one of the gas pumps outside. A man got out of the driver’s side, and a woman tore open the passenger door and jumped out. They appeared to be arguing. Castiel heard their muffled, angered voices through the glass window.</p><p>They headed for the door, the woman coming in first. He barely heard the buzzer over her words: “Just leave me alone! <em>God</em>.”</p><p>Castiel held up his hand to them in greeting. “Good m—”</p><p>“Look, I <em>told</em> you I was sorry!” the man yelled back. Castiel slowly folded his hand and looked away to give them privacy. Why they would bring their argument into a public space, he had no idea. It wasn’t any of his business.</p><p>The woman ripped open one of the doors in the refrigerator section and pulled out a can of iced coffee. “Not good enough! You always do this! You try to—to control me—”</p><p>“Oh, come on! I do not!”</p><p>“—And then you think you can just say <em>sorry</em> and we’ll be good!” She slammed the fridge door, and Castiel knew he should tell her to be careful with store property, but he didn’t want to get in the middle of their fight.</p><p>“But I <em>am</em> sorry!” the man insisted. He gave a frustrated noise, then seemed to control his temper. “Okay… Okay, really. I’m sorry, baby.” Castiel narrowed his eyes, wondering why he called her that. She appeared to soften at the term of endearment. “I won’t do it again. Look, hey—You wanna drive the rest of the way?”</p><p>The woman attempted to remain annoyed. She rolled her eyes and huffed, but there was no heat behind it. And Castiel understood that these two people were in love. He was glad they were able to settle whatever disagreement they might have been having.</p><p>“Alright, fine,” the woman said. “Now, go fill up the tank. I’ll be right out.” She met him in a kiss, and Castiel immediately looked away uncomfortably. He’d never even seen Anna and her husband kiss. The public displays of affection he was accustomed to were a kiss on the hand or looping arms while walking down the sidewalk. It seemed this century was much different.</p><p>The man left the store and headed back to the gas pump, and the woman met Castiel at the register. She dropped the can of coffee on the counter. “Sorry about that,” she said, sounding slightly embarrassed, and Castiel didn’t know if she was referring to the kiss or their fight.</p><p>Either way, he said, “It’s no trouble.” He rang up her item.</p><p>“Yeah,” the woman said. “But you know… boyfriends. No offense, but you men can be pretty frustrating.”</p><p>That was something Castiel could agree with. He wanted to do so aloud, but he wasn’t certain if he should. Dean seemed rather open with his sexuality, and so did Charlie, but Castiel didn’t know what others thought of such things. It wasn’t her concern, anyway, just as her romantic life wasn’t his. “Will that be all?” he asked, referring to her coffee.</p><p>“Yeah,” she said again, handing him a five dollar note. She snorted and added, “Unless you got a magic spell that turns me into a lesbian. Wouldn’t that make my life easier?”</p><p>Castiel’s eyes widened, his heart skipping a beat. He realized, maybe, it wasn’t just Dean and Charlie who were so open with such things. Maybe the world had progressed. Maybe no one had to go through what he had: a father urging him to find a wife, having to keep his true self a secret, having to hide who he loved. It was a nice thought.</p><p>Deciding to risk it, he told her, “I wouldn’t know. I’m not attracted to women, either.” Shakily, he handed her the change.</p><p>A grin spread on her face, eyes twinkling with glee. “Oh yeah? Good for you. Or maybe not, ‘cause—you know. <em>Men</em>.” Castiel thought he could collapse. The woman swiped up her coffee and pointed to him. “See you around.” She left the shop.</p><p>Castiel’s mind was fluttering, joy ballooning in his chest because of the encounter.</p><p>He was good at his job. He was making his own way in the world. And this was a world that would accept him.</p><p>Perhaps he was still dead. Perhaps this was heaven.</p><p>The buzzer sounded as the woman left. Castiel jolted back into reality. Hurriedly, he called after her, “Thank you for shopping with us!”</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p> </p><p>By the time Castiel’s shift was over for the day, he thought he could sleep for a week. Despite wearing the comfortable sneakers Dean had purchased for him, his feet ached from standing all day. It became so unbearable at one point, that he had to excuse himself to the bathroom to make sure he wasn’t bleeding. The only thing he found were light bruises discoloring the soles of his feet.</p><p>Aches and pains were far from his worst problem, though. One woman had screamed at him for not selling her a winning scratch off lottery game, and she only yelled louder when he pointed out that he wasn’t aware what the outcome would be when she purchased it. On top of that, there was an incident with the slushy machine that left a mess of blue, sticky ice on the floor and the front of his jeans.</p><p>Still, it wasn’t all bad. A little girl around Jack’s age had laughed shyly at him when he helped her reach a candy bar on one of the high shelves. And Nora was a very patient woman whom he so far got along with. Besides, he was earning his own money. Though, he hadn’t seen any of the money yet, he was ensured it was coming at the end of the following week.</p><p>He had a salary. He’d never had a salary before, only an allowance.</p><p>The walk home was fifteen minutes long, which only made his feet worse, and he couldn’t imagine what it would be like in the winter, but at least he was able to cut through the park. Once he reached the townhouse, he trudged through the backdoor. Sam and Dean were already home, Sam sitting on the couch with his laptop on his knees and a textbook to his side on the cushion. Dean was sitting on the floor, legs crossed under the coffee table. His own computer was set in front of him. They both glanced up when Castiel came in, and Dean’s face lit up.</p><p>“Hey! It’s the workin’ man,” Dean exclaimed, and Castiel assumed that meant the tension between them that morning was forgotten. “Nice vest.”</p><p>Castiel looked down at the blue vest he was required to wear for work. “Thank you,” he said, even though he hadn’t picked it out. He looked over at Sam, nodding in greeting. “Hello, Sam.” Then, he walked toward Dean, leaned down, and dropped a kiss to his hairline. Dean angled his head up, accepting it easily. It still felt odd, being so openly affectionate with Dean while others were present. But he reminded himself that people of this century were much more accepting of relationships such as theirs, and of public displays of affection in general. He thought of the couple he’d seen earlier that day, and greeted Dean, “Hello, baby.”</p><p>The man at the store hadn’t made it sound so awkward.</p><p>Dean shot him a funny look, and across the table, Sam snorted out an aborted laugh. “Did you just call me baby?”</p><p>“Yes,” Castiel said, trying to get a taste for the word in his mouth. He didn’t like it. “It feels strange. I overheard a customer today who called his significant other by that name. But now it seems insulting.” Or maybe it wasn’t. He looked between the Winchesters and asked, “<em>Baby</em> is still the term for an infant, isn’t it?”</p><p>Sam didn’t attempt to cut off his chuckle that time. “Uh, yeah, Cas, sure is.”</p><p>Castiel turned his attention back to Dean, who appeared a little pinker than before. “I just thought… You call me sweetheart.”</p><p>“Yeah, Dean, you call him sweetheart,” Sam agreed, but he still sounded amused.</p><p>Castiel wondered if he’d done something wrong. He narrowed his eyes at Dean in question. “Should I… Do you <em>want</em> me to call you baby?”</p><p>Dean’s throat clicked when he swallowed, and he opened his mouth a few times before saying, voice a little lower in pitch than normal, “Why don’t we stick with <em>Dean</em> for now, huh?”</p><p>Castiel was relieved. He’d never called Dean by anything other than his name, and perhaps there was a reason for that. “Of course, Mr. Wesson. There’s no term of endearment as profound.”</p><p>Sam dissolved into a fit of laughter.</p><p>“Shut up, Sam!” Dean snapped. He was bright red now.</p><p>While Sam attempted to control himself, Dean shut his laptop and climbed to his feet. “Okay, why don’t we—” He licked his lips and flapped his hands to shepherd Castiel toward the kitchen. “Let’s give Sam some space to do his homework.” He placed his hand on the back of Castiel’s neck, practically forcing him out of the room.</p><p>“So, how was the first day?” Dean asked, depositing Castiel near the breakfast table. He moved to the fridge, looking over his shoulder. “You hungry?”</p><p>“No,” Castiel said, sitting down. Nora had let him have free nachos for his first day. They were artificial tasting, and they still sat heavily in his gut. “It was… long. But not unpleasant. I feel I’ve learned a lot about the world.”</p><p>Dean pulled a Tupperware of leftover spaghetti out of the fridge and scooped some into a bowl. “Yeah, that’s retail for ya,” he answered absent-mindedly, sticking the bowl into the microwave. The machine hummed steadily as Dean parked himself against the counter.</p><p>“My boss seems agreeable,” Castiel added. “Nora. I think you’d like her.”</p><p>“Eh, give her a week. Then she’ll turn into a real boss,” Dean said. Castiel frowned, not really entirely sure what he meant by that. He didn’t find Nora disingenuous in the slightest. Before he could parse it out, Dean asked, “And you’re sure you wanna do this, right?”</p><p>Castiel shook his head, not understanding. “Work? Yes. I’d like to do more than sit around all day.”</p><p>“No, I know,” Dean told him. The microwave beeped. He pulled the bowl out and yanked open the utensil drawer, dropping both in front of Castiel. Castiel ignored it in favor of listening to what Dean was saying: “But, I mean… I dunno. A gas station? You sure that’s not a little…”</p><p>Castiel pulled his brows together, his gut constricting. He tried to blame it on the nachos and not on the memory of their earlier disagreement. “What?” he asked, hearing the defensiveness in his own voice.</p><p>Dean let out a breath. “Not <em>you</em>?” he decided on, and Castiel had no idea what he meant by that. Dean leaned against the table beside him. “It’s just—I dunno, Cas. You were gonna change the world, remember? Promote literacy and stuff.”</p><p>It was almost enough to make Castiel laugh. In case Dean hadn’t noticed, the world had changed quite a bit from the one Castiel knew. He wouldn’t even know where to begin. He was completely out of his depth. The world hadn’t needed him in order to better itself. It never had. “It seems to me that everyone in this century is perfectly literate.”</p><p>“Well—” Dean groaned, crossing his arms, “yeah, but—”</p><p>Castiel wasn’t interested in the rest of that excuse. He didn’t need Dean looking down at him. “And it’s not as if I can seek any other forms of gainful employment. I don’t legally exist. So, what else am I supposed to do? Be dependent on you?”</p><p>Dean shook his head, breathing out a pushed laugh into a forced smile. “No, come on. I didn’t say that. You just—I dunno. You think this’ll make you happy?”</p><p>In truth, Castiel didn’t know why his blood was boiling. He could feel it in his temples, in his hands, in his aching feet. He was tired and he didn’t want to talk about this; and, quite frankly, anything other than staring out a window all day was enough <em>happiness</em> for him.</p><p>“Yes,” he gritted out. He stood up quickly, the chair scraping against the floor loudly. Dean jerked his head back, expression tightening. “I’m keeping the job, Dean, and I don’t need your permission to do that.”</p><p>“Cas—”</p><p>“I have to go. I’m tired. Goodnight.” Castiel shoved past him toward the stairs. He felt Dean wheel around, but he didn’t make a move to follow him.</p><p>“What the fuck’s your problem today?” Dean yelled.</p><p>Castiel trudged up the stairs. From the kitchen, he heard Sam’s soft voice ask, “What the hell happened?”</p><p>It was followed by Dean yelling, “Ask <em>him</em>!”</p><p>Castiel went to Dean’s room and closed the door behind him, strongly considering locking it. He stood in the center of the room for a moment, fists flexing at his sides. He tried to breathe, but every attempt felt like knives slashing at his lungs.</p><p>He closed his eyes, picturing a man with dirt beneath his fingernails, mud caked onto his boots, green eyes sparkling despite the soil on his cheeks. Dean had never wished to keep Castiel contained. He’d never wanted to hold him back from the world. If anything, Dean was the one who taught him not to let others decide his future for him.</p><p>He told himself that Dean—<em>this</em> Dean—felt the same. That Castiel was overreacting, that he’d misunderstood. That Dean—this Dean, <em>his</em> Dean—would never want to limit Castiel’s freedom. He couldn’t convince himself.</p><p>Quickly, Castiel went to the desk and ripped open the top drawer. The envelope full of letters that Dean had written Castiel was inside, as was Dean’s mother’s ring. There were photographs, too, the ones from the manor. Anna on her wedding day, Castiel in his mother’s arms as an infant. He pushed those to the side, revealing the military photo of Dean beneath.</p><p>Fingers shaking, Castiel picked it up gingerly, staring down at the man in the picture. His Dean.</p><p>It was absurd. He told himself it was absurd. But, in that moment, Castiel missed him more than he could bear.</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p> </p><p>Dean hadn’t come to bed after their argument, and Castiel had tossed and turned for most of the night while staring at the empty side of the mattress. If he were being honest, he tried not to sleep, too fearful that the dreamless void would swallow him up and never let him go. He didn’t think he could fight it without the promise of waking up to Dean. It was a battle he’d lost around 4 AM, and when he woke four hours later to leave for work, Dean was already gone, leaving a haphazard bundle of blankets and pillows on the couch in his wake.</p><p>For the first half of his shift, Castiel did his best to remain pleasant. It was only his second day, after all, and he didn’t want to make a bad impression. He did everything Nora asked of him, though he was barely able to prevent an eyeroll or a sigh with each request; and he nearly snapped at a number of customers. He was surprised he didn’t fall asleep while standing up, nodding off into the cash register.</p><p>On his break, he sat in the park, hoping the chill in the air would wake him up. All he did was stare blankly down at the peanut butter sandwich he’d packed, his appetite nonexistent, for a half hour that felt like it lasted thirty seconds. When his time was up, he considered just not going back to work. Five more hours on his feet would be nearly intolerable, but it was preferable to going back to the townhouse. He needed to keep himself occupied.</p><p>Because, if he didn’t, he feared he would return home and find his clothes and other items in a suitcase, a note in Dean’s handwriting telling him to be gone before Dean got back.</p><p>He told himself that wouldn’t happen. He and Dean had gotten into arguments before—many times. Dean had only left after one of them, and Castiel still didn’t know if it was the root cause.</p><p>Perhaps it was the uncertainty of that thought that made him offer to lock up the store for the night. Nora had taught him how to do it the previous day. It was a matter of shutting down the electronics and coffee machines, ensuring the register was locked, and turning off the lights.</p><p>“You’re sure you’re okay to do it?” Nora had asked just minutes ago, more concerned than skeptical.</p><p>“I am. I’ll see you tomorrow,” Castiel had told her. He waved her off, and made sure the tail lights of her car were out of sight before he allowed his posture to slump with exhaustion. He wiped at his eyes in an attempt to stop the stinging dryness that had been clinging to them all day. His limbs were sluggish and heavy.</p><p>Still, he took his time with his tasks, and ignored the dread rising up his throat like bile at the thought of leaving. The night outside the windows seeped in, spreading across the tiles and battling for dominance with the glow of the overhead fluorescents. While he switched off the neon logos and advertisements in the window, he went through his mental checklist and found all the boxes ticked.</p><p>He sighed again, for what must have been the hundredth time that day, and decided there was no use putting off the inevitable. He was more than likely letting his fears get the better of him. Who knew? Maybe he’d return home and find Dean in the kitchen with two dinners on the table, and all would be well. It seemed like wishful thinking.</p><p>Slowly, he moved to the back of the store. The security mirror in the upper corner of the hallway warped his haggard reflection. He ignored it, set on collecting his coat from his locker in the inventory room.</p><p>Yawning widely and rubbing at his eyes, Castiel pushed through the door and flipped on the light switch. The bulb flickered weakly. He paid it no mind and bee-lined to the lockers.</p><p>Or, at least, that had been the plan.</p><p>Until he heard a heavy bang behind him.</p><p>Castiel froze, immediately realizing his error. Against all hope, he peered over his shoulder—and found the closet door closed. He’d been too preoccupied to prop it open.</p><p>“Damnit,” he gritted out, feeling as if his body was about to give out of him. His head thrummed with dehydration. He wanted to lay down—preferably with Dean.</p><p>He hurried back to the door, foolishly thinking it would open for him if he got there fast enough. It didn’t. He tried jiggling the knob, but all it did was cause the tin of the door to rattle ever so slightly.</p><p>“Damn it,” he said again, a little louder and with more gusto.</p><p>Haplessly, he peered around the room, searching for something that might aid him. Above, the bulb buzzed, the coils dimming only to spurt back into life again.</p><p>Castiel shook his head, cursing his luck. Nora wouldn’t be back until morning. He’d likely have to sleep there now, which would be difficult because his fingers were already numbing in the damp cold that permeated the concrete walls. He <em>did</em> have his coat in his locker. Perhaps he could make due.</p><p>He’d only just resigned himself when the light bulb gave one final, loud hum—and then the room was plunged into darkness.</p><p>Castiel’s heart jerked. A pit as dark as his surroundings opened up inside his stomach, sucking everything into it like a force of gravity.</p><p>He closed his eyes tightly, telling himself there would be light when he opened them. There wasn’t. He felt around the wall for the light switch and flipped it rapidly to no avail. He didn’t understand. Why wasn’t it working?</p><p>He heard breathing—ragged, broken—and realized it was coming from him. His fingers were growing colder. He clasped them into tight fists to stave it off. His knuckles might have gone white, but he couldn’t know. He couldn’t even see a vague impression of his hand before him. Into the silence, his ears were ringing.</p><p><em>You’re alive</em>, he told himself. <em>You’re awake</em>.</p><p>He was drenched in blackness. The cold was wrapping around his ankles like liquid, circling its way up his legs, twisting around his torso and arms. It climbed up his throat to choke him. It’d grab hold. It’d yank him under until he drowned—and then there would really be nothing. He’d come back to consciousness in time—a minute, an hour, a month, a year. Or maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe, this time, he wouldn’t come back.</p><p><em>You’re alive</em>.</p><p>His heart was thundering against his breastbone. He couldn’t convince himself of the blood coursing through his veins. He closed his eyes. His imagination conjured a grave in the woods, littered with wilted plants and dead animals, allowing nothing to grow, nothing to live. Just dirt and ash and darkness.</p><p>He felt faint. He rounded on the door, vice grip on the knob. It didn’t open. He slapped his fist against the metal. He wouldn’t let the darkness take him. He couldn’t.</p><p>“Castiel?”</p><p>Castiel jerked back from the door, breath catching.</p><p>A muffled, familiar voice sounded from far away. “Castiel, are you still here?”</p><p>“Nora,” he breathed out, relief washing over him. Louder, he called, “Nora! I’m—I’m in here!” His throat felt scratched raw, but that was fine. Any sensation, even pain, was welcome.</p><p>Presently, he heard footsteps, and then the door was pushed open. He winced in the sudden onslaught of light. Nora stood in the doorway. Castiel breathed.</p><p>“You locked yourself in?” she asked, tone sympathetic.</p><p>He nodded quickly, unable to look her in the eye. “The light… it… it went off. It wouldn’t come back on.”</p><p>“We can change the bulb in the morning,” she told him, and he had no idea what that meant. He didn’t care. All he wanted was to get out of that room. It took him a moment to realize Nora was speaking again: “I forgot if I told you to leave the security cameras on. Figured I’d come back and make sure. Glad I did.”</p><p>His breathing was still unsteady. He sucked in a bout of air through his nose. “I am, too.”</p><p>In his periphery, he saw her give him a strange look. She folded her arms across her chest and held open the door with her shoulder. “Hey, are you okay?” she asked.</p><p>He wasn’t certain why that spurred him into action. “Yes,” he said, straightening out. He swallowed to moisten his throat. “I have to go.” Swiftly, he collected his coat from his locker and made for the door. She held it open for him and stepped to the side, face still pinched with worry.</p><p>“You sure you’re okay?” she double-checked.</p><p>Castiel didn’t have the capacity to appreciate her kindness. He fought with the sleeves of his coat while he pulled it on, and barely glanced over his shoulder at her. “Yes. Thank you. Goodnight.” She gave an unsure sound, but he didn’t stick around long enough for her to form words. On his way out, he caught a flash of his reflection in the security mirror. The color was drained from his face, making his skin blotchy and the dark bruises under his eyes seem sunken; it made his lips look blue.</p><p>He pushed through the backdoor and into the cold, moonlit night, and didn’t give himself a second to stop walking. His shoes echoed across the tar. He inhaled deeply in order to steady himself. By the time he got to the park, the adrenaline was subsiding and the fear was washing away. It left him hollow, on the brink of collapse like someone had cut his strings.</p><p>He paused momentarily, taking a second to look around. The park was empty—nothing but the winding path through the grass, the shadows of barren trees, and empty benches beneath the circles of the streetlamps’ orange light.</p><p>Collecting himself, he shoved his hands into his coat pockets to protect them from the cold. His knuckles brushed against something hard. Questioningly, he pulled it out. It was his cell phone. He’d completely forgotten such a thing existed.</p><p>Castiel slipped it back into his pocket and started walking again.</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p> </p><p>When Castiel came through the front door of the townhouse, Dean was in the kitchen, standing over a steaming flying pan of fragrant chicken and potatoes on the stove. Dean glanced over quickly, the line of his shoulders taut and lips pursed. Castiel let the door close behind him. He wasn’t in the mood, and he certainly wasn’t hungry.</p><p>But then Dean did a double-take, and his expression shifted into worry. “Cas?” he asked, leaving the stove behind. “What the hell happened? You look like a—” He cut himself off, and Castiel didn’t know what Dean had been planning on saying but he quickly amended: “You look pale.”</p><p>Castiel let all the air in his lungs expel itself. Not answering, he peeled off his coat and hung it on the rack next to the door. He moved to the table and nearly fell into one of the chairs.</p><p>Dean’s gaze followed him the whole time.</p><p>“I’m fine,” Castiel lied, but he told himself it wasn’t a lie. What had happened at work had been unfortunate, but it had been harmless. He was alive. He was fine. He just needed sleep. And maybe food. Despite his lack of appetite, the smell of Dean’s cooking made his stomach grumble.</p><p>“Bull. What happened?” Dean demanded. Out of the corner of his eye, Castiel caught Sam hovering in the threshold between the living room and the kitchen, brow furrowed with concern. Before Castiel could answer, Dean gave a hissing noise and said, “I knew that job was a bad idea.”</p><p>Castiel’s eyes snapped up to him, fury seething inside.</p><p>Dean didn’t notice. “Look, it’s alright. Whatever happened, we can—” He reached out to lay his hand on Castiel’s shoulder.</p><p>Castiel quickly jerked away. “I said, I’m fine!”</p><p>Dean’s eyes flashed, but Castiel wasn’t sure if it was with surprise or ire. He stood back, his hand still held up. Slowly, he retracted his fingers into a fist. His lips thinned, eyes hard, and he nodded. “Right,” he said, tone clipped. He took another step backward.</p><p>Castiel knew he’d made a mistake. He hadn’t meant to snap at Dean. He rubbed at his eyes, but all it did was worsen his headache. “Dean—”</p><p>“No, I got it,” Dean told him. “Loud and clear. You’re good. You don’t need <em>me</em>.”</p><p>The smoke rising out of the frying pan thickened. Dean didn’t move to fix it.</p><p>“I didn’t mean that,” Castiel told him, dejected. He didn’t have the energy to fight.</p><p>“Well, then what the fuck did you mean, Cas? ‘Cause you’re starting to make me feel like the bad guy.”</p><p>Castiel didn’t know how to explain that this wasn’t about Dean. Or, it was, but he wasn’t the focal point.</p><p>Dean shrugged out his hands. “I’m trying to help you here!”</p><p>He didn’t mean to scoff. It took him a second to realize he’d done it. Dean’s brows shot up to his hairline. Sam was still in the doorway, expression guarded as his eyes flickered between them.</p><p>“Are you?” Castiel bit out—and maybe he <em>did</em> have the energy to argue. “Because all you’ve been doing is treating me like a child.”</p><p>“No, you’re not a kid,” Dean shot back. “But you’ve been here for like, two weeks. You got no idea what you’re doing.”</p><p>“And I’ll never figure it out if I’m locked inside this apartment all day. Or is that what you’d prefer?”</p><p>“Oh, come on, you’re not <em>locked</em> anywhere,” Dean groaned. “Give me a break, Cas. You didn’t know what a traffic light was a few days ago. Excuse me for not wanting you to have a freak out or—or get yourself dead.”</p><p>Castiel rolled his eyes, because Dean was being far too dramatic. He had a creeping suspicion Dean wasn’t stating his real concern. “I’m not planning on hanging myself.”</p><p>“Can you blame me for thinking it?”</p><p>Castiel bit down on his jaw, eyes unblinking as he glared at Dean. Dean had no idea what he was talking about.</p><p>Dean shook his head, giving a humorless laugh. He held out his hand to Castiel as if he were laying down the law. “Look, I know you’re all gung-ho now that you’re out from under Daddy’s thumb, but that doesn’t mean you’re ready to do whatever you want.”</p><p>Castiel looked away and shook his head. He didn’t have to listen to this.</p><p>“I am <em>asking</em> you to trust me,” Dean finished, and it might have been beseeching but it felt demeaning. Why should Castiel trust Dean if Dean didn’t trust him? If Dean apparently never had?</p><p>“How?” Castiel demanded vehemently. “How can I when you pick and choose the information you think I should know?” Dean’s brows knitted together, confusion mixing with anger. Castiel could smell burning now. He powered through it. “Because, apparently, you had this entire secret life before me and you kept it hidden.”</p><p>“Are you serious?” Dean’s face was twisted—and, for a moment, he didn’t look like Dean at all. Castiel didn’t know who he was. “You’re mad at me for something I don’t know anything about? <em>I</em> didn’t do anything!”</p><p>That was enough. Castiel stood up quickly, keeping the table between them. “Yes, you <em>did</em>,” he said between his teeth. “You say I’m not coping, but you can’t even accept that you <em>are</em> him... And he left me. So, you’ll excuse me if I hold doubt in a man who abandoned me and lied to me—and who’s lying to himself.”</p><p>Castiel regretted it instantly. He hadn’t meant any of that. But, now that he’d voiced his fears, he didn’t know how to take it back.</p><p>Even if he tried to apologize, he didn’t think Dean would hear him. Dean only stared at him for a long time, expression like stone. Sharply, he said, “Screw this.” He stormed out of the kitchen, brushing past Sam, who Castiel had forgotten was there. He couldn’t focus on the younger Winchester. Castiel was too busy staring after Dean. Dean, on his way to the backdoor. Dean, who was leaving. Again.</p><p>Every bone in Castiel’s body ached to rush after him, to not let him go.</p><p>He didn’t move. Dean ripped open the door. He slammed it behind him, the frame rattling.</p><p>Castiel should have stayed dead.</p><p>For a long time, nothing happened. Smoke filled the room. Castiel stood, shoulders hunched, head low. Sam remained in the doorway. At some point, he moved into the kitchen and went to the stove. He shut off the flame and put a lid over the now burned food to stifle the smoke.</p><p>Shame spread through Castiel’s body. He hadn’t meant to put Sam in the middle of this. “I’m… sorry you had to see that,” he said quietly.</p><p>Sam walked closer to the table, standing in the same spot his brother had been before. Only, Sam’s posture was different. So was his expression. “No, Cas, don’t…” He let out a heavy breath. Then, “I think it’s probably time me and you talked.” He gestured to the chair, silently asking Castiel to sit.</p><p>Castiel wanted to refuse; he wasn’t certain why he didn’t. It could have been the earnestness in which Sam was looking at him. He sat down. Sam pulled out the chair across and settled in it.</p><p>“Okay, look,” Sam said, voice level. “I know we don’t really know each other, and I could never know what you went through. But… I know Dean. And—I may not remember anything like he does—but it’s tough coming to terms with having a past life.”</p><p>Castiel averted his eyes to the table. A part of him still wanted to remain angry, but he felt the emotion draining from his body.</p><p>He heard Sam exhale heavily through his nose. “I’m just asking you to cut him some slack. Because he’s trying.” He placed his palm on his chest and added, “And I know what that can look like when it comes to him, believe me. He gets a little overbearing. But that’s just because he’s freaking out.”</p><p>Castiel lifted his gaze, unsure how to interpret Sam’s meaning. “He is?” About what? The situation in general, or about Castiel specifically? Or maybe it was about their relationship? Whatever weight was on Dean, Castiel wanted to help shoulder the burden—but how could he when Dean wouldn’t trust him enough to tell him?</p><p>“Yeah,” Sam said on the heels of a mirthless laugh. “He tries to hide it, but—” He flapped his hand in a dismissive gesture. “Eventually, it all bubbles to the surface and he explodes.”</p><p>“I don’t know how to help him,” Castiel told him despondently. Dean had always carried such pain. It seemed it had been carried over to this life.</p><p>Sam dropped his shoulders and thinned his lips in thought. Eventually, he said, “You already are. I mean… He’s freaking out, sure, but, Cas—” His laugh was more genuine that time. “I’ve never seen him this happy.”</p><p>Dean was happy?</p><p><em>Castiel</em> made him happy?</p><p>He was too stunned to speak.</p><p>“So… try talking to him,” Sam finished. “I’m not saying it’s gonna work, but at least he’ll know your side of things. And, Cas… If it ever gets to be too much and you need to talk to someone who at least <em>kinda</em> gets what you’re going through—you know I’m here, right?”</p><p>Castiel appreciated the gesture. He felt a small smile tug at his mouth, and he nodded. “Thank you, Sam. I’m sorry you and I never got to know each other in the past.”</p><p>Sam’s expression turned more pleasant. He nodded. “Yeah, well… We are now, right?”</p><p>“Yes,” Castiel agreed, grateful. Dean always said he and Sam would get along. Castiel took solace in the fact that, so far, they did.</p><p>He stood up, mentally preparing himself for his conversation with Dean. He nodded sternly down at Sam. “I’ll… go speak to him.”</p><p>Sam nodded back. “Good luck.”</p><p>Castiel assumed he’d need it.</p><p>He stepped out of the back door, letting the screen rattle shut behind him. The night was somehow warmer than it had been minutes ago, but only slightly. Castiel lingered momentarily, fisting his hands at his sides, knowing he should have put on his coat before coming out. Dean wasn’t wearing a jacket, either. He was leaning against the hood of the Impala, arms crossed tightly and head bowed.</p><p>Above, the moon was covered by a wisp of clouds, and only of the brightest of stars managed to break through the void. Below, bits of grass stuck out of the gravel of the driveway. A soft yellow glow came from the windows of the Winchesters’ and Kelly’s apartments. In the corner of his eye, Castiel caught a shadow of movement behind a curtain in Jack’s upstairs window. From the street on the other side of the house, Castiel heard a rush of tires. Far away, a train’s horn echoed across the distance, and it seemed peculiar that the very same railroad tracks had been first laid in Castiel’s lifetime.</p><p>He breathed out, seeing it fog in front of his lips, and watched Dean. Just by the way Dean was standing, Castiel knew he was aware that he was no longer alone. He was just too stubborn to look up. They were both stubborn.</p><p>He strode toward Dean, hearing the gravel crunch beneath his shoes. Slowly, he sidled up to Dean’s side, ensuring to keep some space between them. The freezing metal of the car bit into his skin through his clothes. Dean didn’t say anything. Castiel tilted his head up at the sky, giving Dean a moment to get used to his presence.</p><p>He said, “There are hardly any stars.”</p><p>Dean shifted, half-glancing at Castiel. “Yeah… Light pollution or something.” He sounded as tired as Castiel felt.</p><p>Castiel nodded, even though he wasn’t quite sure what that meant. He also had no idea where to go from there. It was best not to delay. He faced Dean, taking in the outline of him in the low-light. “Dean, I’m… sorry,” he began earnestly, “for what I said. I didn’t mean any of it.”</p><p>Dean’s throat bobbed. He nodded once before lifting his head and puffing out a cloud of air. “No, you’re right. I was being a dick.” He tightened his arms across his chest, and Castiel didn’t know if he was cold or defensive. “I dunno, Cas. I don’t… know who I am.”</p><p>Castiel let his gaze fall to the ground while the words washed over him. All day, he’d been so afraid that he never truly knew the man he loved, he’d forgotten that Dean had only just met himself. “I do,” he said, hoping it was enough, hoping it was true. Dean swiveled his head to look at Castiel, eyes searching. “And, Dean, you’re <em>trying</em>. That’s more than I can say.”</p><p>“Don’t say that—”</p><p>“It’s true.” Castiel laughed dryly, musing, “I’ve been so ready to leave the past behind that I’ve been running from it. But maybe you’re right. Maybe the only way to move forward is by confronting what happened. If that's the path you feel you have to follow... I'll go with you.”</p><p>Dean remained quiet for a moment. And then, “Even if we don’t like what we find out?”</p><p>Castiel raised his brows and tipped his head to the side, not truly knowing how to answer. Because he <em>was</em> afraid and that wasn’t going away—but so was Dean. Castiel wasn’t alone. “At least we’ll know.”</p><p>Dean swallowed and cast his eyes upward. “Cas, you know I’m not trying to smother you, right? I’m just…”</p><p>“Protecting me,” Castiel finished for him, reminding himself not to become agitated. It was a delicate matter. Castiel wasn’t some frail, broken thing, like Dean thought he was.</p><p>But Dean corrected, “Trying to make you understand that I’m not going anywhere.”</p><p>Castiel felt his heart skip. Despite his efforts, long-ago memories dredged to the surface. He remembered the day he found out Dean left without a goodbye.</p><p>Dean told him, tone growing more passionate, “And, look, I don’t remember what happened. But if—if <em>other me</em> left you… maybe you do have the wrong guy, ‘cause I could never—” He cut himself off and quickly hung his head again.</p><p>Castiel stared at him, not knowing what to believe. Desperately, he clung to the hope that they’d never know. Because what if Dean was wrong? What if it happened again?</p><p>And what if it didn’t?</p><p>Perhaps he’d never learn, but he wanted to believe Dean would never hurt him. He was willing to give Dean the benefit of the doubt. Because he loved him. It was foolish of him, but he loved Dean and he would do anything to remain with him.</p><p>Collecting himself, Dean sat up straighter and oriented his body more fully toward Castiel. His face was set with determination. “We’re gonna build a future, I promise,” he said sternly, meaning it. And Castiel believed him. “But, in the meantime, maybe we gotta start trusting each other more.”</p><p>Castiel nodded, pushing aside all doubt. “I think I can do that.”</p><p>A sad smile came to Dean’s face then. “Alright, c’mere, sweetheart,” he said softly, wrapping his arm around Castiel’s back and pulling him in. Their bodies pieced together. Dean dipped down and nuzzled Castiel’s cheek before kissing him, full of apology, full of forgiveness. When they broke apart, they stayed close, noses brushing, warm breath mixing in the night air.</p><p>Castiel forgot all about the stars, or lack thereof. He lifted his gaze to study Dean through his eyelashes. Dean, with a constellation of freckles. Dean, with galaxies in his irises. Castiel couldn’t help but to recall a science lesson one of his tutors had taught him in his youth—one about the cosmos.</p><p>A very long time ago, humanity, in its arrogance, believed that Earth was the center of the universe, and that all the celestial bodies in the whole of creation revolved around it. And then Copernicus came along and put the world in its place, hurtling through the void like the rest of the lowly, unimportant planets in the sky.</p><p>Castiel looked at the man before him.</p><p>Copernicus taught humanity that man was not the center of the universe. But Copernicus never saw the way Castiel looked at Dean Winchester.</p><p>A slow, provocative smile formed on Dean’s face. He strengthened his hold, tugging Castiel in impossibly closer. “What d’you say we take this inside?”</p><p>Castiel bit down on his lower lip, grinning. A giddy rush went through him. He nodded. “Yeah.”</p><p>“Yeah?” Dean chuckled, and Castiel nodded faster. They kissed again for another long moment, more purposefully than before. Castiel placed his hand on Dean’s chest and rubbed small circles with the heel of his palm. Dean lifted his hand to briefly place it on the back of Castiel’s, then moved lower to wrap his fingers around Castiel’s wrist. He stood up off the car, bending over slightly to remain close. “Let’s go.”</p><p>“Having sex against your car doesn’t interest you?” Castiel asked, nipping at Dean’s lips.</p><p>Dean groaned, sounding <em>very</em> interested. “Where the fuck have you been all my life?”</p><p>“Dead.”</p><p>Puffing out a surprised laugh that skirted across Castiel’s cheeks, Dean said, “How ‘bout we do that when it isn’t freezing out?” He tugged at Castiel’s arm to get him to stand up. They walked back toward the house together, practically tripping over each other’s heels. The same anticipatory exuberance overcame Castiel as always had whenever he and Dean snuck off to the woods, or to Dean’s apartment over the carriage house, or through the manor to Castiel’s room. There was the rushing sense of joy that he could have this. He could have Dean.</p><p>Castiel walked through the backdoor first, Dean right behind him, his strong arms around Castiel’s waist, his lips on his neck. On the couch, Sam cleared his throat loudly, and Dean exhumed his face to grin impishly. Castiel half-looked over his shoulder at him, gaze snagging on the way Dean’s lips glistened.</p><p>“Guess you guys talked,” Sam said as if he’d regretted suggesting the idea in the first place.</p><p>Castiel supposed he should thank him. “Yes. We did.”</p><p>“Yeah,” Dean added. “But we’re not done. Gonna head upstairs for some more <em>talking</em>.”</p><p>Sam let his eyes fall closed. He hung his head and pinched the bridge of his nose.</p><p>“And we’re still pretty pissed at each other, so don’t worry if you hear yelling,” Dean went on. He turned his face back into Castiel’s. “Ain’t that right?” Castiel nodded at him, starstruck. “Oh, or furniture moving around! Or banging. Or—”</p><p>“Okay, guys,” Sam interrupted urgently. He held out his hand, letting it hover in the air. “Just… go. <em>Please</em>.”</p><p>Dean kneed Castiel from behind to make him start moving. They left the living room, rushed through the kitchen, and raced up the stairs. Castiel hardly remembered getting to their room. They were already kissing in a frenzy by the time the door swung closed behind them. Castiel fisted at the front of Dean’s shirt, pulling him closer. Dean’s hands were tucked into the back pockets of Castiel’s jeans, squeezing and groping.</p><p>He backed Castiel against the wall, slid a hand down Castiel’s thigh to lift his knee. Castiel hooked his leg around Dean’s waist to slot their hips together. Dean pushed closer and worked his body in small pulses that rubbed in all the right places. Castiel wanted him closer. He knotted his fingers of both hands into the back of Dean’s hair and kissed him harder, with a scrape of teeth and low rumbling sounds that might have been coming from either of them.</p><p>When they broke apart, Castiel’s lungs were on fire. It was an impossible feat to catch his breath—and he wasn’t sure he wanted to. He was dizzy, the room soaring and spinning on its axis, its motion causing him to hurtle back into Dean—toward Dean’s body, Dean’s lips, the intoxicating scent of his skin.</p><p>Castiel crowded him against the side of the desk, making Dean stumble back into it and perch on the edge. The picture frames on top rattled; a pencil rolled off and fell to the rug. Dean parted his knees to allow Castiel to come closer. His face was already flush; his open mouth was red. His eyes swept slowly up to meet Castiel’s, and the green was overcome by his pupils. Quickly, he unbuttoned Castiel’s shirt halfway before choking out a laughing, “Good enough,” and pulling it off. Castiel lifted his arms up to rid himself of the shirt. He felt it tousle his hair as it slid over his head, and he could only imagine what a mess he looked. Dean only grinned wider, a playful twinkle glinting in his eyes. He reached up to rough up Castiel’s hair.</p><p>“Much better,” he reported, fingers still latched onto Castiel’s scalp.</p><p>If Castiel thought the desk could hold both of their weight, he would have pushed Dean backward and crawled on top of him.</p><p>Instead, he said, “Not yet.” He tugged at Dean’s flannel, and Dean seemed to get the message. Castiel pulled it off Dean’s shoulders and tossed it away, and Dean took off his t-shirt. It was still a slight shock to the system to see Dean’s chest without his tattoo. Castiel had to take a moment to recover, to tell himself it was still Dean. Nothing was missing. He was perfect.</p><p>Too late, Castiel realized that Dean was twisting his t-shirt into a line. His stomach dropped half a second before Dean held the fabric to his eyes, plunging Castiel into darkness. He could hear Dean laughing, but the sound was suddenly far away. In an instant, Castiel was back in the cold, dark closet at work. He was waking up in bed, something like ice water clawing up his throat with the realization he hadn’t dreamed. He was in the manor, screaming and railing against the numbness that overwhelmed him after he woke up from a period of missed time.</p><p>Dean’s laughter cut off suddenly. Castiel realized he was gripping Dean’s wrists tightly.</p><p>“Cas?” Dean asked, lowering the fabric, and then all Castiel could see was the concern in his eyes.</p><p>“I’m—” Castiel eased his grip. His skin was raised in goosebumps, and he could feel a shiver coming on. “I… I don’t want to do that.”</p><p>Dean's eyes widened, and he must have understood what was happening. “Shit,” he hissed, tearing his gaze away. Castiel hadn’t meant to cause him remorse. “I’m a fuckin’ idiot.”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“You wanna stop?” Dean asked him.</p><p>“No!” More than ever, Castiel didn’t want to stop. He didn’t want to feel cold or numb or dead. He wanted Dean’s warmth, Dean to help him feel alive. He wanted Dean. “No,” he said again, leaning back in to capture Dean’s mouth. “Dean.”</p><p>Dean kissed back at once, his hands coming to Castiel’s cheeks, but he was gentler than before. He didn’t have to do that. Castiel didn’t want him to. He wanted to put that behind them.</p><p>He kissed Dean harder, hoping to get things back on track. He moved away from Dean’s lips, trailing along the line of his jaw and down the side of his neck. Dean groaned, tilting his head to the side to allow Castiel more room. Castiel could already feel his body heating up again, his heart getting back up to speed. He reached between them to palm at the front of Dean’s jeans, a thrill going through him with all the sounds it elicited.</p><p>Reluctantly, they parted again to get out of their clothes. Castiel stepped out of his shoes and fumbled with the zipper of his pants. Dean tipped off balance while attempting to pull off his boots. He laughed, and decided the solution was to sit on the floor to take them off properly. They thudded when he tossed them to the side. He laid back on the rug to shimmy out of his jeans. Castiel, mouth going dry, watched him lift and work his hips, and it was much too tempting.</p><p>He got on the floor and laid on top of Dean. Dean abandoned his efforts in favor of grabbing Castiel’s shoulders and yanking him down to crash their mouths together. Though, he must have gotten one leg free, because he wrapped them around Castiel’s hips. His heels dug into Castiel’s lower back to drag him in closer.</p><p>“Dean,” Castiel eked out, burying his nose into Dean’s Adam’s apple. He breathed Dean in, and it still made him ache. It seemed impossible to still want someone even when he already had him. To long for Dean despite the fact that he was right there. Castiel wondered if it would always be like this. It was strange, but he hoped for it.</p><p>He laid a kiss to Dean’s neck before lifting his face to say, “Do you remember the game we used to play?”</p><p>Dean chuckled throatily, sounding almost delirious. “I dunno, Cas. We played a lot of games.”</p><p>Castiel hummed and dropped another kiss to Dean’s chin. “Yes, but this one’s my favorite,” he reminded Dean. “Five minutes.”</p><p>Dean gasped, delighted. “<em>Yeah</em>! Yeah—fuck. I remember that one.”</p><p>The rules were fairly simple. Each of them had five minutes to do whatever they wanted to the other—touching and kissing anywhere on the other’s body except for one place in particular. They’d take turns until one of them lost the game by asking to be touched.</p><p>“I always liked making you beg,” Castiel told him.</p><p>Dean jerked his head back, expression smug. “Sorry, who made who beg?”</p><p>They always were far too competitive.</p><p>“Alright,” Dean breathed out. “Well, if we’re playing that, I know where I’m starting. But first—” He lifted himself fractionally and twisted to pull his jeans off all the way. He dug into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone. “No more looking at the clock,” he said, thumbing at the screen.</p><p>Castiel pulled his brows together, impatient but willing to see where this led them.</p><p>Dean turned the phone around to show him the screen. The numbers were counting down from five minutes. “See? Stopwatch.” He tossed the phone to the floor beside them.</p><p>“Revolutionary,” Castiel said flatly. He didn’t point out that Dean was wasting his allotted time.</p><p>“Okay, then!” Without warning, Dean flipped them over, and Castiel almost had the wind knocked out of him—not to mention rug burn.</p><p>Dean laid kisses down his chest, moving in a line toward Castiel’s hips. When he got to the waistband of Castiel’s boxers, his eyes flickered up, plump lips pursing mischievously. He palmed off the boxers, and Castiel lifted his hips to aid him.</p><p>“Get ready to lose,” Dean told him. Castiel lifted his head off the rug to raise an unimpressed brow at him. But then Dean grabbed his sides and began mouthing at the ridge of his hipbone. Castiel inhaled shakily and let his head drop back down to the floor. He stared up at the ceiling without really seeing it. Dean moved across the line of Castiel’s hips, the stubble on his cheeks scratching as he nipped and sucked the skin. He dipped low at points, teasingly close to Castiel’s dick.</p><p>“You’re cheating,” Castiel gritted out. He hadn’t noticed that he’d been fisting at Dean’s hair.</p><p>“Not breaking any rules,” Dean insisted, tone light and amused. He hooked Castiel’s leg over his shoulder and sucked at the inside of his thigh.</p><p>Castiel’s entire body twitched. He tugged harder at Dean’s hair to keep from touching himself. Dean went back to his hips and worked on deepening the fading hickey that he’d branded into Castiel’s skin a few nights ago. Castiel’s eyes rolled back, his focus divided on his own breathing and the glorious sensation of Dean’s mouth on him.</p><p>Soon, something nearby began ringing. It sounded like the alarm Dean used to wake himself up every morning, and it caused a visceral reaction in Castiel. He gasped at the shock of it and fumbled for the phone to stop the dreadful noise. He supposed that meant Dean’s time was up.</p><p>“Your turn,” Dean said breathily, appearing victorious even though he hadn’t yet won. He crawled back up Castiel’s body and hovered over him, arms braced on either side of Castiel’s head. He reached for the phone and tapped the screen to make the timer start over. “Okay, go.”</p><p>Castiel grabbed Dean around the waist and pulled him down, rolling them over in the same motion so he was on top. He snatched both Dean’s wrist and put them over his head, stretching Dean out beneath them. Dean tilted his chin up defiantly, tongue darting out to wet his lips. “Shoulda tied me up when you had the chance,” he goaded with a click of his tongue.</p><p>“I don’t need to,” Castiel promised. He set in on the bolt of Dean’s jaw, moving to the patch of tender skin beneath his ear. This close, it was easier to hear every breath and sigh and hard swallow that Dean tried to hold back.</p><p>“That all you got?” Dean asked, voice raw and unsteady. “Weak.”</p><p>Castiel dragged his hands slowly down Dean’s arms, to his chest. He scratched his nails lightly over Dean’s nipple, bracing himself for the way Dean jolted under him by pinning him down with his hips. He didn’t even think Dean heard the shout that had been punched out of him.</p><p>Castiel pecked a kiss to Dean’s lips. “Turn over,” he said, and lifted himself up slightly to give Dean room. Dean quickly did what he was told, rolling to lay on his stomach. Castiel swiped his finger down Dean’s spine, savoring the sight of him shifting and shivering. He worked on the same spot on Dean’s neck from behind, at times moving to nibble at the shell of his ear, just until Dean fisted his hands and began letting out small, choppy moans.</p><p>“Dean,” Castiel said. He spoke between kisses while he mouthed at the line of Dean’s shoulders. “When you lose… how do you want me to make you come? With my mouth?” He moved down his spine, paying reverent attention to the concentration of freckles at the small of Dean’s back. “Or would you rather my hand?” He tapped his fingers against the divots between Dean’s ribs.</p><p>Dean pushed his hips forward into the rug. He sprawled his legs a little wider. “Fuck,” Castiel heard him hiss, muffled against the floor.</p><p>“Or,” Castiel said. He groped Dean’s ass, sucking the skin right above it. “Do you want me inside you?”</p><p>“Cas—”</p><p>The alarm went off again. Castiel was almost disappointed. Another few seconds, and he was sure he would have had Dean begging. It would have been a relief for both of them. He didn’t know if he could hang on for much longer.</p><p>Dean grabbed his phone and jabbed it with his finger to cut the sound off. Castiel sat back on his heels, that dizzy feeling coming over him again—this time accompanied with the rushing thump of his pulse throughout his entire body. His knuckles went white in the effort it took to not touch himself.</p><p>Dean rolled over again and sat up, his eyes glazed, mouth hanging open. “My turn,” he declared. But he didn’t set the timer again. He tossed the phone away uncaringly and launched himself at Castiel, causing them to both crash down to the floor with an audible thump. Castiel thought Dean’s mouth was on his before they even hit the rug. His fingers scrambled at Dean’s back, trying to find purchase among the sweat-slick skin and shifting muscles. Dean lined up their hips and circled into him.</p><p>Castiel gasped, ripping his mouth away for air. Dean moved against him again, and Castiel chased after him.</p><p>“Cheating,” he said, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. They were working up a steady rhythm.</p><p>“Want me to keep cheating?” Dean demanded between breaths.</p><p>“<em>Yes</em>,” he answered, just barely able to get the word out. Castiel tipped his head back, trying to pull in the humid air. He felt Dean bury his face into the column of his throat.</p><p>“Cas,” Dean groaned. He scrambled behind him to grab Castiel’s wrist. He brought Castiel’s hand to his mouth and started sucking on his fingers—one at a time, two at time. Three. Castiel watched him, enraptured. He focused on the stretch of Dean’s lips, on the graze of his teeth, the wet heat of his mouth.</p><p>Castiel’s skin started to buzz, his muscles tightening. He felt solid, in tune with his body. Dean always made him feel that way.</p><p>Dean pulled off of Castiel’s fingers. He said emphatically, “Your hand. Your hand.” And it took Castiel a moment to realize what that meant.</p><p>They rolled onto their sides, staying close, limbs tangled. Castiel reached between them, taking them both in his fist, and started pumping. It was heaven, no longer having to hold back. Dean wrapped his hand over Castiel’s and doubled their efforts. He knocked their forehead together. His eyes were closed tight. Castiel’s were open, searching Dean’s face.</p><p>He came first, his body locking up. Dean worked him through it—through the soaring and the spinning, through the dark vignette creeping into his vision, until it subsided to warm, comfortable waves lapping against him, and then into echoes of sensitivity. Dean’s hand slowed, allowing Castiel time to recover.</p><p>“Dean,” Castiel said. There was sweat on his brow, all over his body. There was come on his stomach. He kissed Dean’s mouth, and Dean hummed and grunted into him. “Let me,” Castiel told him. He wrapped his hand around Dean’s dick. Dean circled his arms around Castiel. He gasped laboriously into the space between them, his muscles tightening and loosening, body writhing, until he came into Castiel’s fist.</p><p>Castiel allowed him time to settle, to catch his breath. He cradled Dean closer to him, stroked the back of his hair, smoothed his palm down Dean’s cheek, soothed the hickey blooming under his ear. Then, without room for argument, he said, “I won.”</p><p>Dean jerked back immediately. “You did not! It was my turn!”</p><p>“Yes, you lost on your own turn.”</p><p>“Shut up!” Dean argued. “It was a tie.”</p><p>Castiel rolled his eyes. “If you insist,” he said, content in the knowledge that he was the victor.</p><p>Groaning as if in pain, Dean rolled onto his back and propped himself up on his elbows. He sniffed and glanced around the room, eyes falling on the bed. The bed they never made it to. Frowning in disgust, he said, “I’m gonna have to Stanley Steamer this rug.”</p><p>“It may need a good cleaning,” Castiel agreed. He prodded the mess on his stomach. “As do we.”</p><p>Dean hummed. He sat up and ripped the comforter off the bed, one of the pillows coming with it, only to plop out of his reach. “Yeah. Why don’t you go do the walk of shame to the bathroom downstairs?” He nodded to the pillow. “Get that, would ya?”</p><p>Castiel reached for the pillow, catching sight of the beginnings of a bruise on his elbow. <em>Battle wounds</em>, Dean always called them. He set the pillow down near them while Dean spread out the blanket over them. “Why would I feel ashamed?” he asked, settling back down on his side. The rug scratched against his bare skin. “I just had sex with the most handsome man in the world.”</p><p>Dean scoffed, pretending the compliment didn’t cause him to blush. He laid back, his head on the pillow. “Yeah, don’t think Sam downstairs would agree with you on that one.”</p><p>Castiel laughed, sidling closer to Dean’s side. He tossed his arm over Dean under the blanket and rested his head on Dean’s chest, listening to his still slightly rapid heartbeat. “I’m not ashamed,” he said, letting his eyes fall heavily closed. Now that his body was settling, sleep was creeping in. The edges of his mind felt fuzzy. Dean dragged his knuckles up and down Castiel’s arm in a rhythmic, comforting motion.</p><p>And Castiel was glad whatever anger and uncertainty they’d had was behind them now. He much preferred sleeping next to Dean than alone.</p><p>“Hey, uh—Cas?” Dean broke the silence with a whisper after a while.</p><p>“Yes, Dean?” Castiel said to show he was still awake.</p><p>“I’ve been thinking.” Dean’s heart was speeding up again. Castiel could hear it. “You know… You know how you were talking about not existing in the eyes of the government?”</p><p>It seemed like a strange thing to bring up after sex. Castiel opened his eyes, furrowing his brow. “Yes.”</p><p>“Yeah,” Dean said. He swallowed audibly. “And you’re not gonna be able to do shit like open a bank account and get like—like, health insurance or whatever crap.” His voice was trembling slightly, in the way it did when he desperately tried to stop it from doing so. Castiel wondered if he should be worried. Despite telling himself there was no cause for concern—that their fight was over—the beginnings of fear curled in his abdomen.</p><p>“Yes,” he said again, not knowing what else to say.</p><p>“Okay, but what if you could do that stuff?”</p><p>“How?” Castiel asked. He thought they’d explored every avenue, unless Dean knew of another way. He thought of the ID Dean had given him. “Another forgery?”</p><p>“Well, no,” Dean said, voice going up an octave. “No, not—It’d technically be legal.”</p><p>Castiel got the feeling Dean was stalling, which meant he probably wouldn’t like the idea. Not allowing himself too much hope, he raised his head to look at Dean questioningly, impatiently. “Then, how? If there’s a way, I’d like to know it.”</p><p>Dean’s hand stilled on Castiel's arm. His gaze was averted. “I mean—you and me—we could go down to the courthouse, sign a few documents.” He shrugged. “That way, all the benefits and whatever I get would be yours, too.”</p><p>Castiel’s fear immediately turned into caution. He tried not to get ahead of himself, because what he was thinking was impossible. It was likely a miscommunication. “What <em>documents</em>? Dean.”</p><p>“I know you never wanted any of that,” Dean said, not answering the question directly. “We wouldn’t have to call it anything. Wouldn’t wanna cramp your style. But I thought… might make your life a little easier. If you want.”</p><p>Castiel narrowed his eyes, studying Dean’s face—the apprehension there. The hope. The readiness to get rejected.</p><p>When it dawned on Castiel, he could hardly breathe. “Are you talking about marriage?”</p><p>Dean still wasn’t looking at him. “We don’t have to call it that!” he assured again.</p><p>No, that couldn’t be right. Castiel was dreaming. He had to be.</p><p>Despite himself, he felt a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Can that… Can we do that? We’re both—”</p><p>“Yeah, Cas,” Dean said, eking out a chuckle. “Two dudes can do that now. Anybody can marry anybody.” He licked his lips, chancing a quick glance at Castiel. “You don’t have to answer right now.”</p><p>Castiel felt as if a wave had crested over him. He was floating. In all his life, he’d never dared to imagine…</p><p>Dean was still talking: “Think about it. But it might help. And I wouldn’t expect anything or anything. I just thought—”</p><p>“<em>Dean</em>.”</p><p>Dean’s gaze snapped to Castiel, panic in his eyes before he carefully controlled it. And how could he ever assume Castiel would reject him? Castiel had waited centuries for him.</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>Dean blinked, seeming to take a moment to process the word. When he did, he lit up from the inside out. “Yeah?” he asked excitedly.</p><p>Castiel nodded rapidly, his smile free on his face. There was pressure beating against his temples. Tears prickled in his eyes. “Yes, I will marry you.” A laugh burst out of him, sounding more like a wet sob.</p><p>Dean laughed, too, eyes glassy. “Well, alright,” he said, beaming. “Let’s get married.”</p><p>Castiel didn’t believe this was real—and yet, it was the only real thing. He kissed Dean, tracing the curve of Dean’s smile against his lips. Dean spread his palm on Castiel’s cheek, his thumb brushing the corners of their mouths where their lips met. Castiel couldn’t stop laughing.</p><p>“I’ll be Mr. Castiel Wesson.” His heart was so full, he thought it might burst.</p><p>Dean gave a small sound of objection. “Well, Winchester. But same difference.”</p><p>It was strange. The information hit Castiel all at once, and it didn’t sit right. But like Dean had said, it didn’t matter. He’d get used to it. “Of course.” He kissed Dean again.</p><p>“When can we go?” he asked.</p><p>Dean was positively radiant. “Hell, I’ll go right now!”</p><p>Castiel assumed the courts were closed for the night, which was disappointing. He was so eager, he was willing to break in, but he supposed he shouldn’t start his legality with a crime. “Tomorrow,” he told Dean, and Dean nodded.</p><p>“Tomorrow,” Dean echoed.</p><p>Castiel rested his head on Dean’s chest again. He knew he should go downstairs and clean up, that way he could go to sleep and wake up to a new day that much faster. But he was much too comfortable sharing in Dean’s warmth. Besides, he didn’t know how he was going to sleep now.</p><p>He was getting married tomorrow. This night felt vastly different to the night before his last wedding.</p><p><em>Castiel Winchester</em>, he mused. He could certainly become accustomed to that, so long as he had Dean.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Chapter 12</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>1867</strong>
</p><p>The balm of summer snapped against the manor’s windows, the earth’s axis now turned fully toward the season. It was still early on, just a week after the solstice, when the mountain range in the distance was covered in a blanket of green and wild flowers poked their heads upward along the roadsides. The days were long and humid; the nights offered little relief but for the lazy croak of tree frogs beyond billowing curtains that lulled Castiel to sleep. It was shaping up to be, in Castiel’s opinion, the hottest season on record. The temperature and humidity had never bothered him in such a way in the past.</p><p>In fact, he had always enjoyed summer. It offered a chance to be among nature, to let the light warm his face, to give himself over to the heat and the carnal calling to be among the life that grew toward the sun. Despite the heatwave, he especially enjoyed the season this year, because Dean’s hair became lighter the longer he spent outside, and a few more freckles adorned his nose. Sometimes, when Castiel was sitting in the garden, he’d catch sight of Dean at work, his jacket stripped and his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His shirt would be stained with sweat, the fabric thin as it clung to him and revealed the roll of his shoulders.</p><p>Castiel pretended very hard not to look.</p><p>He also didn’t dare let on the thoughts that crossed his mind in those moments and reminded him just how uncomfortable the heat of the days was. He couldn’t even escape his imagination at night, when he’d look out his bedroom window and catch glimpses of Dean in the candlelight inside his apartment across the grounds. Sometimes, Castiel would stay up until the glow from within was blown out. He’d go to bed with images of Dean settling in for sleep.</p><p>In fact, the summer was so enjoyable, Castiel couldn’t help but to hear it singing all around him. It was in the birds, the crickets, the barking of the dogs, the buzzing of the bees, and the sluggish breeze that sometimes rustled the grass. It was in the churn of the stream in his garden. It was in Dean’s laughter when they’d sit together. Music, all of it. It translated to notes in Castiel’s mind, until his fingers drummed them out, until he decided upon waking up that morning that he would go to the piano and give them a try.</p><p>However, it seemed his father had different plans.</p><p>Castiel stopped short outside the music room. The door was ajar, voices coming from within. He recognized one of them as his father’s. The eagerness that had spurred him out of bed and made him quick to dress suddenly turned to lead in his gut.</p><p>His father never entertained guests in the music room. In fact, Castiel could probably count on one hand how many times he’d seen Chuck even enter the room—or any part of the manor’s east wing.</p><p>Curious, Castiel poked his head inside. The arm chairs that usually sat along the wall had been brought to the coffee table opposite the couch. Chuck sat in one, legs crossed and relaxed. Castiel recognized the man in the second chair as Peter Allen. His sister, Daphne, was sitting to one side of the couch. A tray of coffee cups, sugar, and breakfast pastries sat on the table between them.</p><p>“Oh, Castiel!”</p><p>Castiel’s eyes snapped up to meet his father’s. Inwardly, he cursed himself for looking in. If he hadn’t, he could have avoided being sociable. There was no escape now.</p><p>Chuck sat straighter and motioned for him to come inside. “Come on in. I was wondering when you’d show up.”</p><p>Castiel opened the door fully, trying not to look too rueful. Both of the Allens stood up to greet him.</p><p>“Castiel, good to see you,” Peter said, shaking his hand.</p><p>Politely, Castiel responded, “Likewise.” He turned to Daphne, greeting her with a bow of the head and a smile that he hoped seemed earnest. “Miss Allen.”</p><p>“Good morning, Mr. Novak,” she said with a shallow curtsey before perching back on the couch. Castiel felt his father’s eyes tracking the exchange as though his vision created physical pulses through the air. He was torn between not wanting to be rude by ignoring Daphne and wanting to do everything in power to prove he wasn’t interested.</p><p>While Castiel sat down on the other side of the couch, putting as much room as he could between himself and Daphne, his father explained, “I invited the Allens over for coffee. Kinda a last-minute thing. Peter and I have some business to discuss before his trip to Chicago next week. And I know Miss Daphne’s a friendly face, so—” he shrugged out his hands, grinning, “why not make it a party?”</p><p>Castiel nodded, thinning his lips to stop himself from speaking his mind.</p><p>“Sorry about commandeering your favorite room,” Chuck said, and Castiel doubted he meant it. In fact, he was rather certain this was orchestrated. His father leaned into Peter, talking out of the side of his mouth in a stage whisper, “Castiel spends practically all his time in here. He’s great on the piano. Takes after his old man in the music department.”</p><p>“I didn’t know that,” Peter said with interest. “Daphne spends a good portion of her days serenading the house with our piano. Don’t you, Daph?”</p><p>Castiel busied himself by pouring a cup of coffee from the carafe and spooning sugar cubes into it. When he was finished with that, he brought his mug to his lips, hoping the caffeine would afford him the mental capacity to deal with such a blatant attempt to find him a wife. His gaze swung longingly toward the window.</p><p>Outside, Garth ran around the yard with the dogs. Dean approached, on the way to start his day, and the dogs yapped and circled him. For a while, Castiel recalled, Dean had been skittish around the dogs. Even in town, he would keep his distance when an unfamiliar hound would come sniffing around him. But he’d warmed up to the manor’s dogs over time.</p><p>Smile shining, Dean caught the bone Garth tossed toward him. He reeled his arm back and threw it. The dogs raced after it. Castiel felt his cheeks pulling wistfully at the display.</p><p>He was brought back into the room when he realized Daphne was speaking. “Not as much as I’d like to anymore,” she was saying. “I’m not sure if Peter told you, but I’ve taken up a position tutoring the Schortz’s children.”</p><p>“You could always give <em>them</em> piano lessons,” Castiel pointed out.</p><p>She laughed lightly, and he didn’t see how what he said was funny. She said, “I could, but I think I’ll save teaching them how to read sheet music until after I’ve taught them the alphabet.”</p><p>He nodded in understanding. He supposed it was noble of her to help such small children learn how to read. Castiel didn’t have that kind of patience, but, then again, he didn’t know any children. Perhaps he’d feel differently if he did.</p><p>The longer the conversation went on, the more awkward and stilted Castiel became. He was starting to feel like the prized pig at the state fair. He imagined Daphne must have felt the same, even though she didn’t show it. All Chuck and Peter did was trade anecdotes that showcased either himself or Daphne.</p><p>He wondered if his father thought he was stupid.</p><p>He wondered <em>just</em> how stupid his father thought he was when they ventured into the backyard and Chuck suggested Castiel entertain Daphne while he and Peter spoke about the firm. Never mind the fact that it was humiliating that Castiel couldn’t be part of that conversation, but the matchmaking was painfully obvious.</p><p>And he didn’t want to hook his arm into Daphne’s and stroll around the gardens, because Dean was there. Castiel didn’t know why that mattered, but it did. Dean had clocked them the moment they stepped outside. Castiel noticed his eyes scanning Daphne up and down, likely attracted to her. Castiel couldn’t fault him.</p><p>Objectively, Daphne was beautiful. And she was kind, and thoughtful—charitable, intelligent. In the past, when his father had come close to finding a match for him, Castiel could come up with an excuse that Chuck might accept: they had clashing personalities, she was from a family that never went to church, she’d been seen around town with other men, or the like. He never felt comfortable doing it, but it saved them all of trouble in the long run. He was doing those women a favor.</p><p>However, on paper, Daphne was a good match. He was painfully aware of that. He couldn’t find any issue with her, except for one: she was not Dean Wesson.</p><p>It was pitiful. He knew he shouldn’t base his life around Dean. To think Dean would ever share his feelings was foolish. But if Castiel had to choose between marrying someone he did not love and spending a thousand lifetimes waiting for the mere possibility of Dean looking his way, he would take the latter.</p><p>He could not have his happiness. It would be unfair of him to rob Daphne of a chance at finding her own.</p><p>Lost in these thoughts, he led her through the paths in the backyard. Sometimes, his gaze would land on his father and Peter talking and smoking on the patio. Often, his eyes would stray to Dean. Dean never looked back at him.</p><p>He felt bad for not contributing to the conversation, but Daphne seemed to fill the silence well enough on her own. He really wasn’t even listening to what she was saying until she stopped walking suddenly and said, “Oh, is that your groundskeeper?” Castiel cast his eyes to Dean, not needing to follow her gesture. Even when Castiel wasn’t looking at him, he’d never lost track of Dean. “The one who did all this?”</p><p>Dean was on his hands and knees, digging with a spade to plant fresh flowers. He dug as if he were furious with the soil.</p><p>“Yes,” Castiel said. “Dean—Um. Mr. Wesson.”</p><p>Daphne gripped Castiel’s elbow and said, enthusiastically, “I <em>have</em> to go give him my compliments!” Castiel’s stomach knotted and he didn’t know why. In truth, he was surprised she’d even noticed Dean. Her brother certainly hadn’t; neither did most people. Castiel wasn’t certain how that was possible. Dean was a presence in any room he entered. Still, to most, he was nothing but staff.</p><p>Before he could protest, she slid her arm out of his and walked across the grass. Castiel followed after her at once. Dean didn’t look up, not until Daphne called, “Excuse me? Mr. Wesson?”</p><p>Dean sat back on his ankles, forehead lined as he looked at her. His eyes flickered over her shoulder to latch onto Castiel’s. Castiel silently tried to convey an apology. Dean licked his lips and brought his attention back to Daphne. “Yeah?” He stood up. Mud was stained into the knees of his pants, and brushed the loose soil off his lap. “Can I help you, miss?”</p><p>Castiel stood at Daphne’s side, his anxiety mounting with every passing second.</p><p>“I just wanted to compliment you on your gardening,” she told Dean. “You’re very skilled.”</p><p>“Oh, uh…” Dean’s gaze kept flickering to Castiel. There was something in his eyes. Not panic, but something close. Something aching and caught off guard. Castiel couldn’t name it. “Thanks. It’s… It’s not that hard.”</p><p>Daphne looked out to the backyard as a whole, sighing wistfully. “I’m sure that’s not true, but you definitely make it look easy. If I ever have a household of my own, I want the gardens to look just like this.” She turned to Castiel, squeezing at his arm to get his attention. Until that moment, Castiel didn’t realize he’d been holding Dean’s eyes. He tore his gaze away. “Wouldn’t you say, Castiel?”</p><p>In his peripheral vision, Castiel saw Dean’s throat bob. He must have known what Daphne was doing there. Castiel had hoped for the opposite. Something about Dean’s knowledge of the potential match made it seem very real.</p><p>“Yes, I… I’m fortunate to have someone like Mr. Wesson in my household.” The heat of the day was suddenly too stifling. Castiel found it difficult to draw breath. “Daphne, perhaps we should let him get back to work.” He couldn’t stop himself from looking at Dean again. Behind their guardedness, Dean’s eyes were pleading. Castiel didn’t even know what he was pleading for.</p><p>“Of course,” Daphne said cheerfully. “It was nice to meet you.”</p><p>Dean gave a low-wattage smile and nodded his head. “You, too, miss.”</p><p>“Apologies if we disturbed you,” Castiel told Dean. Dean only nodded again. Daphne hooked her arm in Castiel’s again and they turned away, headed toward the patio. Castiel glanced over his shoulder, finding Dean back on the ground, shoulders held tightly. Castiel did his best to ignore the fact that Dean and Daphne’s meeting had troubled him. The conversation had been innocent and genuine, and the perceived awkwardness was only in his mind. He tried to shake away the strange way his lungs had tightened.</p><p>“Hey, look at that. Perfect timing,” Chuck said while Castiel and Daphne approached. He clapped Peter jovially on the shoulder. “We were just finishing up.”</p><p>“So soon?” Daphne asked, sounding disappointed.</p><p>Remorse spread out between Castiel’s ribs. He didn’t want to lead her on. He slipped his arm out of hers and said, “It was nice to see you both.”</p><p>“And you,” said Peter. He turned to Chuck and added, “Thank you for having us.”</p><p>“Oh, any time!” Chuck said with a flap of his hands. “Zachariah will see you out, okay? Have a good one.”</p><p>Castiel didn’t know why he lingered as he and his father watched the Allens walk back into the house. Chuck had his arm raised high over his head in a wave, and he didn’t drop it until they were out of sight. Humming, he mused, “Ah, they’re good people.”</p><p>“Yes,” Castiel agreed, because it was certainly true.</p><p>“And what about that Daphne, huh?” Chuck said, wiggling his brows. Castiel deflated. He’d been afraid of this conversion. “You two seemed to get along.”</p><p>“She’s… pleasant,” Castiel answered carefully.</p><p>Chuck apparently decided to take that as a rave review. “Pleasant! Okay! Great!”</p><p>“Though I would have liked to have joined the conversation concerning the firm I’m to inherit one day.” He saw his father’s expression dim. “Don’t you think that would have been more appropriate?”</p><p>Smile now faded completely, Chuck gave a petulant, weary breath and said, “Come on, Castiel, there’ll be plenty of time for that.”</p><p>“There’ll be plenty of time for marriage, too,” he pointed out.</p><p>Chuck gave a loud groan, throwing his head back. “Castiel! What—what do you want me from me?” He threw an arm out toward the backdoor. “She’s a nice girl! You have all the same hobbies, right? What’s wrong with her?”</p><p>Nothing was wrong with her. Something was wrong with Castiel, however.</p><p>Castiel looked off, attempting to gather his thoughts. In the near distance over his father’s shoulder, Dean was hauling himself up from the dirt. Castiel watched him, the bow of his legs, the way the sun glimmered off the sweat on his skin. The sight stirred something inside of Castiel. It was something akin to determination—courage where it had not been before. It was not quite bravery, no. Bravery required sacrifice. Castiel realized he well and truly had nothing to lose.</p><p>“I don’t love her,” he said, looking back at his father.</p><p>“Maybe if you got to know her better, you would,” Chuck asked as if it were of little consequence. “Plus, you can provide a lot for her.”</p><p>Castiel scoffed. “Except a devoted husband. And happiness.”</p><p>Chuck waved it away. “That’ll come later. They say the best marriages are built from mutual respect, right? You could at least… <em>try</em>.”</p><p>“I don’t want to marry her, Father. I don’t want a wife.” A few months ago, saying such a thing was unthinkable, but the thought of keeping it in any longer was unbearable. He didn’t want to follow his father’s plan. This was <em>his</em> life. For the first time, he intended to live it as he saw fit.</p><p>His father didn’t know what was best for him. Castiel did.</p><p>He hoped his father would understand.</p><p>“Stop!” Chuck yelled suddenly, pointing a finger in Castiel’s face. The word boomed across the grounds. His eyes had gone stormy, face dark.</p><p>And Castiel did stop. He went rigid. There was something about that tone, about the scolding gesture, the swift fury. It reduced him to a child who was making too much noise while his mother was resting, or when he got in the way of the staff, or when he’d hurt himself and began crying only to be berated for not being strong enough. It was the tone that was felt deep in Castiel’s bones, that made Castiel stop speaking, stop inquiring, stop feeling.</p><p>He’d been very good at not feeling until Dean Wesson walked through his door.</p><p>Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Dean stand up straight, eyes like a hawk and face baleful. It might have been reflexive, but he took a charged step forward. One subtle look from Castiel made him pause. Dean interfering would only make matters worse.</p><p>“You know what, Castiel? I’m sick of this! I’m done with the attitude, okay? Finished. Do you think I <em>want</em> to sit here playing matchmaker? I’m <em>busy</em>! And do I get any thanks? No!”</p><p>Even the dogs had stopped barking now. Castiel’s face tightened with shame.</p><p>“Honestly? You should have been married already. You need to step up and take some responsibility for your own life. Got it?”</p><p>Castiel gnashed his teeth. He wanted to argue. No matter how he tried to temper himself, he could feel a knot of hatred seething in the dead center of his chest. It burned white hot.</p><p>Chuck dropped his shoulders and fixed Castiel with a glower of finality. “Look,” he said, rubbing at his temples. “Just… do what you're told.”</p><p>Without waiting for a reply, he walked toward the backdoor and pushed through it. Castiel kept staring at the spot where he’d been standing. The pulsing rage in his chest was flickering out, leaving him too cold in comparison. It licked at his insides, chilled his skin. Phantom fingers grazed the back of his neck.</p><p>Dean was still looking at him. Castiel could feel it. Slowly, he brought his eyes up to meet Dean’s.</p><p>Dean held his stare for a while, expression pained and vengeful. Then, he looked pointedly at the woods at the back of the property. There was a question there, and comfort.</p><p>Dean was a good friend.</p><p>Castiel wanted so badly to go with him, to get lost among the trees and pretend he was a thousand miles away, to be alone in their own world. He and Dean.</p><p>But he couldn’t disappear just yet. It would be too suspicious. Word of what had happened would spread through the house, and Zachariah was bound to hear of it. He’d be watching. If he couldn’t find Castiel, he’d report it back to Chuck.</p><p>It was safer to wait. Not just for himself. In fact, in that moment, he cared little for his own wellbeing. But he would not risk Dean.</p><p><em>Tonight</em>, he mouthed as clearly as he could.</p><p>Dean seemed to get the message. He nodded almost imperceptibly and stiffly turned back to his work.</p><p>Castiel left the sunshine behind and slouched back inside.</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p> </p><p>“All you did was step on my feet, Dean. I believe I still have the bruises to prove it.”</p><p>Castiel was drunk. The evidence of that was two-fold. First, the moonshine sloshing against the glass bottle clutched in his fist. It was the second bottle of the night, as he and Dean managed to polish off the first between the two of them, and its empty remains lay wasted on the corner of the blanket they’d placed on the grass of their hidden garden. Second, Castiel was speaking about dancing with Dean at the masquerade ball.</p><p>It was a mistake. It would lead to nothing good. Only heartache and longing, like it did every time he foolishly allowed himself to think about it. It was a mistake to speak of it aloud—to the man himself no less—and whatever infinitesimal part of Castiel’s brain that was still sober screamed at him to stop. He took another swig of the whiskey straight from the bottle, and all traces of sobriety were at once absorbed by inebriation.</p><p>Besides, this was preferable to talking about the event that had prompted them to seek out their hiding place. It was a topic they, so far, avoided. Castiel was grateful for that.</p><p>“Okay, fuck you,” Dean laughed.</p><p>Dean was drunk, too. His grin was stretched wide and incessant, revealing the shimmering whiteness of his teeth in the crescent moonlight and the flicker of the lantern. His canines were pointed. Castiel didn’t think he’d noticed that until that very moment. Dean’s ears were pointed, too, which he already knew.</p><p>He’d stripped out of his jacket. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbow, showing off his forearms.</p><p>Dean carried his drunkenness better than Castiel. Somehow, it only made him more open, more beautiful. Castiel assumed he looked a mess, with his untucked shirt, the first few buttons undone to welcome the slight, unreliable breeze. His hair was curling with sweat.</p><p>“’Scuse me for not being cut out for the Russian Ballet after just a week’s worth of lessons. Jeez.”</p><p>That’s right. Castiel remembered now. He hadn’t brought up this subject. Dean had. He’d told Castiel that Benny and Jo had given him dancing lessons in the week leading up to the ball. Castiel was still a fool for letting the conversation go on for as long as it had, but at least he wasn’t <em>so</em> far gone that he’d told Dean he couldn’t stop thinking about their dance. It was the focal point of all his dreams.</p><p>“Hopefully, you were gentler with the women you danced with that night,” Castiel told him. “I’d hate for Benny and Jo’s hard work to be in vain.” He’d meant to say it jovially. It felt too heavy in his chest. His throat felt cracked and dry around the words, voice too scratched. Hopefully Dean didn’t notice, but something told Castiel he had.</p><p>Dean gave a polite snort of laughter. He looked downward to where his arms were hanging off his propped-up knees. “Yeah,” he said.</p><p>There was a pause; the stream gurgled in the sweet nighttime heat. Crickets chirped in the underbrush. Castiel’s skin felt too hot sitting there beside Dean. His body was simultaneously too light and too weighty around him. He drummed his fingernails against the bottle in his lap.</p><p>Dean cleared his throat and snatched it away from him. He tilted his head back, throat bobbing as he took a pull. It was mesmerizing. Castiel pulled in air through parted lips.</p><p>Voice a little thicker, Dean said, “You know, I coulda been a <em>great</em> dancer if I grew up in a fancy house like this.”</p><p>Castiel scoffed. He leaned back on his elbows and kicked out his legs in front of him. The blanket they’d brought from the manor protected him from the prickling itch of the grass.</p><p>“I <em>could</em>!” Dean insisted.</p><p>Rolling his eyes, Castiel refused to acquiesce. “For all your stubbornness, I don’t know if it could provide you with grace.” Perhaps that wasn’t the right word. Dean was graceful. It was in the way he moved, his swaying gait, the crinkles around his eyes when he laughed, the liquid roll of his back under his shirt, his delicateness when he tended to the flowers.</p><p>“Then maybe you don’t know me very well.”</p><p>That was certainly true. Castiel didn’t know him. At least, not as well as he wanted to—and not in all the ways he wanted. But he supposed he’d never get that, and he would have to be content with that. Whatever fantasies he sometimes indulged in would have to remain in his thoughts. It would be enough for him.</p><p>“No,” he said, turning on his side to grab the bottle from Dean. He tapped Dean’s elbow with the bottle’s neck. “But I’d like to.”</p><p>Yes, he was very drunk. It didn’t stop him from taking another drink. He kept Dean’s eyes when he did, just because he wanted to see Dean’s reaction to his words. Predictably, Dean’s brows popped in a mixture of shock and humor—and embarrassment. Castiel liked to watch Dean squirm.</p><p>Sputtering momentarily, Dean eventually got a hold of himself and said, “You’re a pretty flirtatious drunk, you know that?”</p><p>Castiel nearly choked on the whiskey. He felt it burn in his nostrils. He’d taken things too far, walking the fine line between innocent teasing and earnestness. “I apologize,” he said, heart pounding. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”</p><p>Dean brushed it off. “Nah, it’s fine.” He looked back to Castiel, wiggling his brows. “Not that I mind it.”</p><p>And now it was Castiel’s turn to squirm—if gasping sharply and completely freezing could be counted as squirming.</p><p>Dean excused himself with, “Now who’s being a flirtatious drunk?” But something about him appeared victorious. Castiel swallowed hard, trying to tell himself he was projecting.</p><p>Still, it made him wonder just how much he could get away with. Perhaps he could keep treading that fine line; perhaps he could indulge in more than just fantasy without crossing it.</p><p>He was on his feet before he made the conscious decision to stand up, and he paid for it. His head spun, the trees wobbling around him and the ground twisting up toward the stars. He had to hold out his arms to steady himself. There, like that, with his arms outstretched, it felt for a moment like he was flying.</p><p>Dean was looking up at him, expression crestfallen and Castiel didn’t know why. “What, you wanna go back inside?”</p><p>Castiel didn’t want to do that—probably more than anything. He wondered if they should. It was probably late, past midnight. But the moon didn’t hold time in the same way the sun did. He thought, if he railed against it hard enough, he could ensure the night would never end.</p><p>“No.” He offered his upturned palm to Dean. Dean’s face pinched warily. His eyes flickered between Castiel’s hand and his face. Castiel huffed, because it was simple. Why didn’t Dean just <em>know</em> what he was thinking? He explained, “Since you believe yourself a proficient dancer, show me.”</p><p>Dean was floundering again. He opened his mouth wide, nothing but broken and stunned sounds coming out. He clamped his jaw audibly closed. Finally, he said, “That’s not happening.”</p><p>Castiel was too drunk to be offended. He saw no reason as to why Dean should be shy about it. It was just the two of them and a noisily hooting owl in the distance. “Why not?”</p><p>“Because!” It looked like he was fishing for a plausible excuse. It only furthered Castiel’s belief that Dean was all talk. “There’s no music, for starters!”</p><p>Castiel lifted a brow down at him. He kept his hand hovering between them.</p><p>It seemed Dean would need more convincing, and Castiel thought he knew just the way.</p><p>“Fine. I can win this argument with other methods.”</p><p>“Oh, yeah?” Dean answered, tone already licked with defensiveness.</p><p>“Yes. At the next ball, I’ll just take a survey among all the women asking which of them broke a toe while dancing with Dean Wesson?”</p><p>Dean’s eyes darkened with the challenge. He ran his tongue over his upper row of teeth. Castiel extended his hand again, presenting it like a dare.</p><p>Dean took a long pull of the whiskey. Some of it seeped out from the corner of his mouth, running in a thin rivulet down his chin. Castiel watched its progress with rapt attention, suddenly aware of how dry his own lips were.</p><p>He got distracted when Dean slapped his palm into Castiel’s, and for a brief moment, Castiel forgot why he’d offered it.</p><p>“Fine,” Dean gritted out. “But I’m leading.”</p><p>And how could Castiel ever forget?</p><p>“Of course,” he said, like it was obvious. Dean hovered in his personal space for a long pause. Their hands were still clasped. In the balmy night, Dean’s palm was clammy. Castiel became aware of the sweat prickling on his hairline and pooling beneath his arms and at the small of his back. The air was packed in close and tangible. In the proximity, Dean’s skin smelled of loose soil and perspiration.</p><p>Castiel placed his hand on Dean’s shoulder, touch light and hesitant as his heart beat against his ribs like a bird in a cage. Too late, he fully realized how stupid this was.</p><p>Dean appeared uncertain. He lifted his palm, eyes searching. Slowly, he placed it on Castiel’s hip.</p><p>“Wrong already,” Castiel scolded him. He removed his hand from Dean’s shoulder to grab his wrist. “Like this,” he instructed, pulling Dean’s arm around his back. Dean’s fingers trailed up his spine, settled at the wings of his shoulder blades. His chin was ducked, labored breath smelling of whiskey, and Castiel could become even drunker from it. Castiel felt like he was on fire.</p><p>“Good,” he tried to say, and swallowed. He resumed touching Dean’s shoulder. He positioned his hand more comfortably in Dean’s.</p><p>He was burning.</p><p>Dean continued to look down. He stepped forward. Castiel mirrored the footwork. He continued to do so with each slow, unsteady movement Dean made. And Castiel didn’t care if Dean couldn’t dance, because this was the best dance of his life. They moved in an arc around the garden. The trees twirled around them. The stream spun. The crickets sang. There was music, after all.</p><p>Castiel was still burning.</p><p>His gaze was glued to Dean’s face, tracking the focused furrow of his brow, the way the tip of his tongue poked out between his front teeth, the long curl of his lashes, the tentative confidence of his flickering smile, and the pinched frustration in the pout of his lips whenever he fumbled. His skin glistened with a layer of sweat. Castiel breathed him in.</p><p>They continued to circle around the garden. It was almost dizzying, and the motion combined with the heat made Castiel feel faint. His stomach churned uncomfortably, sloshing with liquor. There was a pressure in his chest.</p><p>He burned.</p><p>Dean’s eyes swept up to meet his, and there was a proud twinkle in them, like he was comfortable enough to look away from his feet. Castiel searched his face. The wave of nausea broke against the shore, and he felt pleasantly weightless again. Flying. Or falling. It wouldn’t last long, he knew. He wondered if Dean might catch him.</p><p>“Better,” he whispered. He could hardly speak.</p><p>Dean’s hand tightened in Castiel’s. His arm strengthened, pressing against Castiel’s back to pull him in closer, and it appeared to be subconscious. Dean was beaming when he said, “Told you I’d get used to it.”</p><p>Castiel didn’t even dare to blink. He held Dean’s eyes. “You’ll be impressing the debutants in no time.” The sickness was back, but only to prickle around the edges of sensation. In truth, he was feeling so much, he almost felt as if he were going numb.</p><p>Dean pressed his lips together, and something passed over his eyes. He almost looked sad. “Right.” He cleared his throat then, looking off to the side. “Hey, speaking of debutants…”</p><p>Castiel furrowed his brows, knowing where this was going but not knowing why it was relevant. He was aware of Dean’s hand shifting in his, the grip of his fingers tightening marginally. The digits of his other hand tapped against Castiel’s back. It was distracting.</p><p>“That girl today,” Dean said, letting it hang in the air. It sounded like a question, but Castiel didn’t quite know what he was asking.</p><p>He frowned deeper. “Daphne?”</p><p>“Yeah, Daphne,” Dean said quickly, like he’d forgotten the name. “I’ve seen her around here—at, you know, dinners and stuff.”</p><p>“I wasn’t aware you paid attention to the guests,” Castiel told him, expecting a laugh.</p><p>Dean only ducked his head and let out a high-pitched noise. Then, “Well, <em>A</em>, I don’t. <em>Two</em>, she’s just been… around.” Castiel didn’t see the point of this. Perhaps his mind was still too foggy. The dancing was making him dizzy.</p><p>“So?”</p><p>Castiel’s eyes snapped to Dean, and found Dean was looking back at him now.</p><p>“You think she’s… your partner or whatever you called it?”</p><p>Castiel was confused. He’d told Dean that he didn’t want a wife, or any woman. He thought he’d been exceedingly clear. He’d even been relieved that Dean had accepted the reason. Perhaps he’d been wrong.</p><p>For a moment, he considered reiterating himself more plainly. The words sat heavy on his tongue. But Dean was still looking at him, still holding him, and Castiel lost his nerve.</p><p>In the end, he simply said, “No, I don’t.”</p><p>Something passed over Dean’s eyes, and Castiel told himself not to read it as relief. “Oh,” Dean said, surprised. “Well, she looks like she likes <em>you</em>.”</p><p>Castiel meant to roll his eyes. He heard himself laugh instead. Did Dean really not know?</p><p>Dean shot him a curious look.</p><p>Now that Castiel had started, he couldn’t stop smiling. He felt one corner of his mouth pulling as he shook his head at Dean in a mixture of wonderment and frustration. A voice in the back of Castiel’s head urged, <em>kiss him</em>. He wondered if Dean would understand his feelings then, or if he’d still be lost.</p><p>Before he could do much of anything, Castiel’s foot connected with something, making him stumble. He glared down at a stone that had been washed up by the stream. Dean was chuckling.</p><p>“Sorry,” he said, not sounding like he meant it. “Guess I didn’t build this place for dancing.”</p><p>“No, you certainly didn’t.”</p><p>It was then that Castiel realized they’d stopped moving. Their hands were still clasped, Dean’s palm etching a mark between Castiel’s shoulder blades, chests brushing. But they weren’t moving. It was more like swaying—or maybe that was the alcohol. Castiel swayed in Dean’s arms.</p><p>He looked around the garden—the wrinkled, abandoned blanket on the grass with the discarded whiskey bottles, the bench, the flowerbeds, the meticulously placed outcropping of stone. So much devotion had gone into building this place, it made Castiel’s heart swell. No matter what Dean did, he always did it with love. To have even a fraction of that directed at Castiel—to allow Castiel to bask in even the refractory light of Dean’s glow—was a blessing.</p><p>And it was baffling. He was as perplexed about it now as he was on the night Dean had offered to build the garden.</p><p>“Why did you?” he asked, turning his face back to Dean. He hadn’t realized how close they were.</p><p>Dean’s gaze dropped. He shrugged. “I dunno. We’re friends.”</p><p>That was hardly a good answer, not to mention a lie. “Dean, we hardly knew each other when you decided to build it.”</p><p>“Maybe I make friends quickly.” A lopsided, self-satisfied smile bloomed on Dean’s face. He was deflecting. Castiel didn’t say anything. He waited for the truth. Eventually, Dean sighed. Keeping his hand conjoined with Castiel’s he relaxed their arms by letting them fall to their sides.</p><p>“I dunno, Cas,” he said again. “I mean, it’s not like…” He was still looking down, something more pointed about it. “It’s not like I have anything else to give you.”</p><p>Castiel didn’t know what he meant by that. He’d never asked Dean for anything. He’d never dare. Because, even if he could ask for the things he wanted, he wouldn’t even know where to begin.</p><p>“I don’t require anything, Dean.”</p><p>Dean looked up at him, eyes hardened. They weren’t as good of a shield as he’d intended. There was still something behind his gaze. Something Castiel didn’t have a word for.</p><p>“Yeah, no shit,” Dean laughed. “Growing up in a big old house like that—”</p><p>Castiel squeezed his hand, getting him to shut up, because it wasn’t a joke. If it would make Dean feel better, Castiel would ask just one thing of him: to never leave. To stay with him for as long as they both lived. To find each other in whatever came after.</p><p>If Castiel could speak at all, it’d be his only request.</p><p>“Except your company,” Castiel told him, hoping it would supplement his earlier statement. Even that felt like too much to say aloud.</p><p>Dean’s mouth parted, the guardedness dropping from his expression. They weren’t even swaying anymore. And then Castiel was. The nausea came back in full. He tipped into Dean, catching himself just before falling against him. He gripped the swell of Dean’s shoulder hard in an attempt to quell the pounding in his head and the roiling in his gut.</p><p>“Damn,” he gritted out. “I drank…” He couldn’t find the words. They slipped like sand in an hourglass. “Too strong.”</p><p>Dean laughed. “Yeah, me too.” He shifted his hands to hold Castiel more steadily, and then they were walking. “C’mon, let’s sit you down.”</p><p>“I loathe you.”</p><p>“Sure, you do.”</p><p>Castiel practically fell on his ass when Dean deposited him on the blanket, and he wasn’t entirely sure how he got there. He recalled very little of the stumbling journey across the garden. He blinked around, realizing Dean was no longer touching him. He sought him out, and found him straightening out the bunched corners of the blanket. Everything seemed to be moving in hazy slow motion.</p><p>Castiel groaned and spread his arms out again. He fell backward onto the blanket and stared up at the stars framed by the canopy of leaves. His eyes shifted to Dean, just watching him. Dean stood up and blew out his cheeks. He wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his arm. With his other hand, he picked open the top buttons of his shirt and fanned it out. Wet marks discolored the fabric under his armpits.</p><p>He was stunning and Castiel was in love with him.</p><p>“The hell are you laughing at?” Dean demanded, his tone licked with humor. He got to his knees before laying on the blanket beside Castiel. Not waiting for an answer, he said, “Come on, on your side so you don’t vomit. And, if you do, don’t vomit on me.”</p><p>Groaning again at the motion, Castiel forced himself onto his side. It was worth it, because now he was facing Dean. Also, he supposed it did help his stomach feel slightly less uncomfortable. “I’ll try.”</p><p>“All I ask.”</p><p>Castiel let his eyes trail down Dean’s neck, to the perspiration shimmering on his exposed collar bone. His shirt dipped where it was unbuttoned, showing the very top of his tattoo.</p><p>“Better?” Dean asked.</p><p>Castiel’s eyes snapped back up to him. He considered the question, and decided he wasn’t, in fact, about to throw up. “Yes.” Or maybe he’d spoken too soon. He still felt woozy, but he couldn’t say he wholly regretted it. “No… Mentally, yes. I’ve forgotten all about the events of the day.”</p><p>That had been the goal, after all. In truth, Castiel couldn’t recall why exactly he’d let his father’s ire bother him. In retrospect, it didn’t matter much. He assumed that had to do with the whiskey, but it had more to do with Dean. Dean tended to make the rest of the world fall away.</p><p>“That’s what I’m here for,” Dean joked. He propped his head up with his hand. “And, hey, when that stops working, there always Plan B of running away, right?”</p><p>Castiel honestly wasn’t sure if he laughed or not. “If only.”</p><p>“Seriously, seriously,” Dean slurred, not sounding very serious himself. He playfully slapped his hand to Castiel’s ribs before resting it there. Castiel grunted upon impact. “Where would you go?”</p><p>It was a game. A simple <em>what if</em>, just like everything else in Castiel’s life. He sighed thoughtfully. “I don’t know.” He knew he’d thought about it, but he couldn’t recall a single place he wanted to visit suddenly. Nowhere seemed as important as where he was currently. “Abroad? Or west.” He was no expert, not like Dean. He didn’t know what he’d like. “You’ve traveled the country. What would you recommend?”</p><p>Dean pulled down the corners of his mouth. Castiel wondered if he’d say Kansas, if he’d want to return home if he could.</p><p>“Sammy always talks about California,” Dean said. “Always thought I’d go there with him when the time came.”</p><p>Castiel couldn’t bear the thought of it. He reached out for Dean, playing with the buttons on his shirt. It didn’t even occur to him that, under different circumstances, Dean might not let him do that.</p><p>“I’ve always wanted to go to California,” he said, but it wasn’t the truth. He’d almost never thought of the west coast. “Would you mind if I came along?”</p><p>Dean smiled widely. His eyes were glazed over. “Sure! The more the merrier. Actually, wait—no. Sorry, you can never meet Sammy. You’ll like him more than me and I’ll be pissed.”</p><p>Castiel’s cheeks pulled in a grin. He was certain that wasn’t true. He didn’t think there was anyone in the world he’d like more than Dean.</p><p>He kept fumbling with Dean’s buttons, rolling them in his fingers, unbuttoning and buttoning them again. His eyes snagged on the tattoo, lingering there. The ink seemed blacker against the night. Castiel wished he could trace its pattern with the tip of his finger.</p><p>He still didn’t know what it meant, just like he didn’t know what the symbols Dean had drawn on his walls meant. He wondered if Dean trusted him enough to tell him.</p><p>“Dean, may I ask you a question?” he said before he lost his nerve.</p><p>“Hmm?” Dean asked like he hadn’t been paying attention. Then, he blinked rapidly and rattled his head, likely to clear the same type of fog drifting between Castiel’s ears. “I guess.”</p><p>“The symbols you drew above your door and beneath your windows,” Castiel asked. “What do they mean?”</p><p>Dean picked at the fabric of Castiel’s shirt, seeming fascinated by it suddenly. “Nothin’,” he deflected. “Just… protection.”</p><p>Castiel certainly hadn’t been expecting that. He wasn’t sure what expression he was wearing, but Dean huffed and said, “Is it really that weird? People put crucifixes over doors for the same reason.”</p><p>Castiel couldn’t argue with that—except there was a difference between believing the Almighty would protect a home and believing in paganism. Though, in the end, neither did much good. Neither were practical means of protection. They were merely emotional security blankets.</p><p>“So, what you’re saying is, you aren’t a good Christian man,” he teased.</p><p>Dean cupped his hand to Castiel’s side again. Castiel could feel the heat of it through his shirt.</p><p>“Hell, no,” Dean laughed emphatically. “In fact, I’m pretty sure I booked myself a one-way ticket to damnation.”</p><p>Castiel’s face immediately dropped. “Don’t say that.”</p><p>Dean gave a <em>pssht</em> sound, and too late, Castiel realized he’d been using a figure of speech. Still, Castiel didn’t know why Dean would even talk about such a thing facetiously. He was a good man. Why didn’t he see that? How could Castiel make him understand?</p><p>“If I make it to heaven,” Castiel told him, and it was a big if, considering the church’s opinion on his proclivities, “and I find you aren’t there, I’ll simply have to go to hell myself to find you.”</p><p>It was strange to realize just how much he meant that. Heaven wouldn’t be heaven without Dean; hell wouldn’t be hell with him.</p><p>Dean’s eyes were scanning his face. It felt warmer than sunshine. More than anything, Castiel loved it when Dean looked at him like that. It made him feel real, solid—when, at all other times, he was transparent.</p><p>“Yeah? And what happens if you die first?” Dean asked, voice low.</p><p>Castiel couldn’t say that he prayed for that exact scenario. Because he didn’t want to live in a world devoid of Dean, not even for a moment.</p><p>Dean’s hand tightened on Castiel’s side, twisting his shirt, like he was bracing himself.</p><p>Castiel stared at Dean’s tattoo. He didn’t mean to say it aloud: “Then I’d wait in the darkness until you caught up.”</p><p>But he <em>did</em> say it out loud.</p><p>It was too much. Castiel knew it was too much. Fear stole over him like ice. He looked up at Dean, stricken, meaning to apologize. Dean’s mouth was parted again, bottom lips shuddering slightly like he wanted to say something but didn’t have the words. Whatever they were, he must have found them on Castiel’s lips; he surged forward like he was intent on stealing them. His mouth crashed against Castiel’s.</p><p>Castiel’s heart kicked into life. He could taste whiskey, feel heat. It made the coldness on his skin thaw out. It took him a moment of pure shock to realize those sensations were coming from Dean.</p><p>When his brain caught up, Castiel twisted the front of Dean’s shirt in his fist. Sobriety smacked back into him with blunt force. It tried to convince him that this wasn’t real. But it was the only real thing.</p><p>He hardly had a moment to process what was happening, let alone enjoy it, before Dean pulled off with a gasp. He lifted his hand off Castiel like he’d touched fire. Castiel was thrown off-kilter. He was in the epicenter of a storm, standing in the calm as the world whipped and spun around him. Time stopped.</p><p>When it started up again, it moved too quickly. Shame and panic sprouted like a wildfire in his stomach. They spread up his chest, clogged his throat, rose up like bile.</p><p>“Shit,” Dean hissed apologetically. His eyes were wider than Castiel had ever seen him. “We’re drunk!”</p><p>And what did that matter? Castiel wanted to pull Dean back in. He wanted to kiss him until they were both blue in the cheeks. And he wanted to run and hide far away, to never step foot in the world again, because how could he when Dean’s lips had been on his? It was all he’d ever be able to think about until his dying day. He didn’t know what he was feeling, but he knew it bordered on mania.</p><p>“No!” he said before he could stop himself. Dean’s expression was panicked. Guilt mixed with mortification. He’d never wanted to take advantage of Dean. “Yes,” he amended, the word sticking in his throat. “We’re drunk.”</p><p>The walls in Dean’s expression were building again. Castiel could see the despondency and vulnerability behind them while the bricks were being laid. If he didn’t stop it soon, whatever was between them would be buried.</p><p>“But—”</p><p>Castiel didn’t know how he was going to follow that up. Dean froze completely. It would be best to leave it alone, to be satisfied with what he’d been given. Dean couldn’t be expected to give more.</p><p>But Castiel wanted more.</p><p>Happiness bubbled inside of him, washing the shame away. The leftover heat of the day seemed more intense somehow.</p><p>“You seem significantly less drunk than me,” he continued, unable to meet Dean’s eye. “And I’m likely to wake up in the morning and think this was a dream.” He was giving Dean an out. He was also admitting to the fact that he often dreamed of Dean kissing him, but he wasn’t concerned about that right now. His only concern was Dean’s emotions.</p><p>He wished he knew what those were.</p><p>“But if you don’t…” He should stop. “If you don’t regret that in the morning…” In his peripheries, Castiel saw Dean’s eyes slip closed. He finished: “You’re welcome to do it again.”</p><p>It was a miracle those words didn’t bring on a heart attack.</p><p>Dean’s eyes shot open. “You… You want that?”</p><p><em>Yes</em>, Castiel’s mind screamed. He felt lit up from the inside. <em>Yes, very much!</em></p><p>How did Dean not know?</p><p>“I… I would welcome it whenever you’re inclined.”</p><p>He dared to look Dean in the eye. Dean barely even blinked. Slowly, he exhaled a choppy breath, and his eyes wrinkled ever so slightly as the corners of his lips flickered shakily upward.</p><p>Castiel wondered if he’d take the out he’d been offered.</p><p>“Please don’t answer now,” he said.</p><p>Dean swallowed hard, and he nodded.</p><p>Castiel would probably curse himself in the morning for this. It was more than possible Dean had a momentary lapse in judgement. It was painful to think about, but, strangely, it was a nice kind of pain.</p><p>Castiel rolled on to his back. The scattered stars winked back at him.</p><p>A long time passed before he heard Dean shuffle and lay flat, too. A longer time passed before Castiel felt something brush at the tips of his fingers. At first, he didn’t know what it was—maybe the wind, maybe a bug. But then he realized it was Dean. His touch was featherlight, almost nonexistent, as he pressed and aligned his fingertips to Castiel’s. Something slot into place inside of Castiel. He moved his fingers, pressing back gently.</p><p>Dean slid their palms together. Castiel let his eyes fall closed. Dean tightened his hand around Castiel’s and brought it up, resting them conjoined on his chest.</p><p>Everything else fell away. The sound of the stream, the chirping crickets, the heat, the shame. They ebbed from his mind lazily. All that he felt was Dean’s skin against his. It was the last thing he was aware before he dropped off into unconsciousness.</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p> </p><p>The dawn chorus had begun. Robins and wrens called out to their mates in the trees above, filling the woods with sweet tunes. It pulled Castiel into wakefulness. It was the first thing he consciously knew. The second thing was the fuzzy cotton feeling in his mouth and the dull, dehydrated thudding in his temples. His nose was cold. The rest of him was warm. Something was pressed against his chest. Something else was tickling his chin.</p><p>Mixed with the birdsong, he realized, was a steady, gentle snoring.</p><p><em>Dean</em>, Castiel’s mind supplied him with. And perhaps he’d been wrong before. Perhaps Dean’s name had actually been his first conscious thought of the day.</p><p>The first conscious thought of his life.</p><p>Dean had kissed him last night. It didn’t feel like a dream. In fact, it might have been the only thing that didn’t for as long as Castiel could remember. The fog had lifted, making way for sparkling sunshine on the wild river of his life, and Castiel no longer felt as if he were swept up in the white-laced current. Dean had offered him a hand and pulled his head out from under the water. At last, he could breathe.</p><p>He’d told Dean to kiss him again, and maybe Dean wouldn’t. Maybe Castiel should blame the alcohol, or to never speak of it again, or to feel ashamed. But there was no shame, not anymore, and Castiel didn’t want to hide from Dean.</p><p>Castiel blinked awake. Thankfully, the sun wasn’t fully out yet. That would only make his headache worse. The woods were still dark, smudged with milky gray light. Above the canopy, the sky was purple and red with the burgeoning day. The stream trickled over the rocks, catching the color, winking and flowing like lava.</p><p>Dean was still asleep. Their chests were pushed together, Dean’s arm slung over Castiel’s ribs, his nose tucked into the crook of Castiel’s neck. His breaths skirted against the skin there; his hair brushed against Castiel’s chin. They must have arranged themselves like that in sleep. Castiel didn’t know how—he hadn’t even recalled falling asleep.</p><p>He realized they were cocooned by the ends of the blanket they were laying upon. He wondered if one of them had done that in the night, too—or if Dean had done that on purpose. His mind buzzed with the possibility. He could imagine it: Dean realizing Castiel had fallen asleep and, instead of waking him, wrapping them both snuggly in the blanket, tucking himself into Castiel and falling asleep. Something in his chest ached, in the same way his head ached. A steady, hollow thud. But tender instead of painful.</p><p>He tilted away slightly, just enough to comfortably look down at Dean’s sleeping form. The crescent moons of his lashes against his freckled cheeks, the way his lips were parted to pull in air, the serene and unguarded vulnerability on his face. Castiel thought about tracing the lines around Dean’s eyes, about thumbing at the swell of Dean’s bottom lip. He kept his hand on Dean’s ribs instead. His other arm was beneath him, past the point of pins and needles, like that part of him had completely died. He didn’t mind it so much, if that was the price he had to pay for watching Dean sleep.</p><p>From nearby, there was a sudden flapping of wings. Castiel looked over his shoulder, taken by surprise. He missed the bird that had been there, but the leaves were still shaking upon impact. He wasn’t certain if the sound or his quick reaction had been the culprit, but Dean woke up. His body went tight against Castiel’s and he pulled in a sharp breath.</p><p>Castiel turned back to him, forlorn. He didn’t think Dean would allow such closeness now that they were awake—and sober—and the sun was rising to take away the mood of the previous night. He should have probably taken his hands off Dean, but he froze, guilt washing over him as though he had taken advantage in some way.</p><p>Dean’s eyes fluttered open, and they were unfocused at first. Castiel saw the exact moment Dean woke up fully. Dean blinked owlishly, their gazes matching. And then, he looked away, taking in their surroundings and smacking his lips. He groaned, lifting his arm off Castiel to knuckle at his eyes. It was the most endearing thing Castiel had ever seen.</p><p>“Hello, Dean,” Castiel whispered. His voice was cracked. His throat felt like he’d swallowed gravel, and he wasn’t sure if that was a product of drinking too much, of sleeping outside, or of longing to kiss Dean awake.</p><p>“Fuck,” Dean said hoarsely, groaning again.</p><p>“It appears we spent the night outside.”</p><p>Dean dropped his hand and gave a humming sound. “Yeah, guess we got a little more tanked than I thought.”</p><p>Castiel remembered how thirsty he was. He glanced over at the stream, wondering if it was worth leaving the bubble of warmth he’d found against Dean. Apparently, Dean thought it was. He shifted, grunting out a “hang on” before wrestling his way out of the blanket. Castiel watched Dean pick up the empty whiskey bottle and stumble tiredly toward the stream to fill it.</p><p>In the meantime, Castiel rolled onto his back, freeing his lifeless arm. It didn’t take long for sensation to prickle back in, and then he had to grit his teeth against the firebrand of pain.</p><p>Dean came back, his spine rattling with a shiver despite the stale morning heat, the whisky bottle mostly full, the clear liquid inside making it seem strange. “What?” Dean asked gruffly while he sat down on the blanket and crowded the ends over his lap.</p><p>“My arm—”</p><p>Dean snorted at Castiel’s discomfort, which earned him a glare. Apparently, he took pity on Castiel. “Lemme see.” Without awaiting an answer, he picked up Castiel’s wrist with one hand and used his opposite palm to rub the skin. It didn’t make the feeling any more bearable.</p><p>“<em>Dean</em>.”</p><p>“Don’t be a baby,” Dean told him. “This’ll make it go faster.”</p><p>Castiel sighed, dropping his head back down to the ground. He let Dean do whatever he wanted, and after a short while, the pain subsided to prickling, and then evened out altogether. Castiel let his eyes fall closed, focusing on Dean’s calloused hands thumbing at his fingers and palm. He wondered if he should tell Dean that it was no longer necessary.</p><p>“Your hands are fuckin’ cold. How’s that even possible in this heat?” Dean said, and Castiel hadn’t realized he’d been on the cusp of falling back to sleep until that moment.</p><p>“Apologies.”</p><p>Dean laughed. He put Castiel’s hand between both of his and rubbed quickly, trying to warm it up with friction. It was such a strange thing. No one had ever touched Castiel like that, no one had ever tried to bring warmth back to his body. He opened his eyes and turned his head to look at Dean.</p><p>“You’re like one of those lizards that needs to sunbathe to get any body heat,” Dean teased.</p><p>“Cold-blooded,” Castiel supplied. He remembered how hot Dean had made him feel last night.</p><p>“Cold-blooded,” Dean echoed.</p><p>Castiel wanted Dean to kiss him again. He’d never been more desperate for anything. His whole body was on edge, waiting for it. He wondered if it’d be like this for the rest of his days.</p><p>“Well, cold hands, warm heart, right?” Dean said, his focus on their hands. There was a lopsided grin on his face in the now pale morning light. “That’s why I got warm hands. ‘Cause I don’t give a fuck.”</p><p>“That’s not true,” Castiel told him. “You’re the most caring man I’ve ever known.”</p><p>Dean stopped moving abruptly. His gaze snapped up, flashing with something before he looked away again, a new kind of smile fighting to grace his lips despite his attempts to quell it. “Okay.”</p><p>He dropped Castiel’s hand in favor of taking a gulp of water. Sitting up, Castiel watched Dean wipe his mouth with his wrist and offer the bottle. The water was brackish, and hints of whiskey twanged the taste, but Castiel gulped it down, happy for the relief.</p><p>As he did, Dean said, “We should probably be getting back before everyone wakes up.”</p><p>Maybe Dean didn’t remember their kiss. Maybe that was a good thing. Disappointment curled inside Castiel.</p><p>Castiel didn’t want to leave, but Dean was right. He’d need to sneak back to his room if he didn’t want anyone to become suspicious. That would become much more difficult after the staff began their morning duties. None of them would question him—except for Zachariah. Castiel especially didn’t want to run into him.</p><p>They got up, Castiel brushing the dirt off his clothes while Dean bunched the blanket up in his arms. The sun was climbing higher, weak light burning Castiel’s eyes. He squinted against it, suddenly eager to get indoors and spend the day in bed. Briefly, he entertained the fantasy of Dean curled against him between the covers, the two of them sleeping off their hangovers together.</p><p>He didn’t understand. Why wasn’t Dean kissing him? His lips were right there, waiting.</p><p>“Ready?” Dean asked, knocking Castiel out of his thoughts.</p><p>Castiel let the bottle swing at his side. He turned to Dean. “Yes.”</p><p>But Dean’s brows popped. “Uh, try again,” he said, and Castiel didn’t understand. He especially didn’t understand when Dean stepped closer and reached for his face with an expression of determination. Everything in Castiel suddenly shut down—his thoughts, his heartbeat, his headache.</p><p>Dean plucked something out of his hair, and brandished a small twig. He grinned proudly and flicked it away.</p><p>“Oh,” Castiel said, disheartened. “Thank you.”</p><p>“Don’t mention it.”</p><p>They trudged back toward the house together. Outside the tree line, the sky was mostly blue. Squirrels darted back and forth, chasing each other up the trunk of the oak tree and disappearing inside the leaves.</p><p>Castiel assumed Dean would leave him there and go to his apartment, but Dean kept in stride with him. When Castiel asked why, Dean only shrugged and said, “I’m better at sneaking around. Don’t want you getting caught.” Castiel appreciated the sentiment, even though it was probably a bad idea.</p><p>When they got to the back of the house, Castiel took the blanket and bundled it against his chest while Dean slid open the window to the music room. They tossed the blanket through first. “Gimme a hand,” Dean said, and Castiel cupped his hands for Dean to place his boot in so he could heave himself through the window.</p><p>On the other side, Dean poked his head out and gave a breathy laugh. Castiel wasn’t sure what was so funny, but he felt himself smiling anyway. He felt drunk again. The sensation doubled when he climbed through the window, and Dean grabbed him by the sides to pull him through. Castiel gripped Dean’s shoulders tightly, his fingers twisting the sleeves of Dean’s jacket. He stumbled into Dean when his feet hit the floor, and they may have toppled over had Dean’s back not hit the side of the piano. A muffled, disjointed note lifted off the strings inside, echoing in the too-quiet room.</p><p>Castiel hardly noticed. He was pressed against Dean again, still clinging to him. Dean’s hands were on Castiel’s sides—two warm points of pressure. The green in Dean’s eyes was speckled with honey-gold as they flitted across Castiel’s face. Eventually, they came to a rest somewhere on the lower half of Castiel’s face, and a force nearly impossible to resist tugged at Castiel’s mouth.</p><p>“Dean?” Castiel said, fishing for Dean’s eyes.</p><p>Dean didn’t look up. He didn’t even blink. “Huh?”</p><p>Castiel swallowed. He wasn’t sure how he was planning on following that up. There was a question, but it was one he didn’t know if he could ask.</p><p>He remembered the piano. “You aren’t very good at sneaking.”</p><p>Dean blinked, seeming to come to. A smile formed on his cheeks. “Shut up. Let’s go.”</p><p>Castiel stepped back, giving him space. They walked to the door together, Castiel just behind Dean, close enough for their bodies to brush. Dean opened the door fractionally and peered out into the hall. Castiel tried to look over his shoulder, but all he saw was the opposite wall. The smell of baking bread wafted in, making Castiel’s stomach churn nauseously.</p><p>“All clear,” Dean reported in a hushed tone. He grabbed Castiel’s wrist, dragging him out of the room. Castiel followed along. Dean led him down the hall, into the foyer. They tip-toed up the first flight of stairs before Dean whispered, “Which way?”</p><p>“Follow me,” Castiel said back, though he didn’t know why, because Dean’s continued presence was unnecessary. He didn’t need to sneak around anymore. No one would see him. The hallway leading to his bedroom would be clear. He just didn’t want to part with Dean just yet.</p><p>They switched places, Castiel in the lead. Dean was still holding his wrist. He took Dean up the stairs to the east wing, and they crept along the walls until they got to the hallway. Dean’s boot connected with a loose board, making it groan. Castiel hushed him, and Dean gave a quiet laugh that was infectious.</p><p>Castiel’s heart was thundering the closer they got to his room. For a moment, he let himself imagine Dean crawling into bed with him.</p><p>When they got to Castiel’s room, he opened the door to the empty space, the tidily made up bed. The sun had crested over the horizon, bringing true daylight with it. It streamed white and blue through the windows of the balcony door.</p><p>They hovered in the threshold, and Dean looked in, seeming impressed. “This room’s bigger than my whole apartment,” he commented.</p><p>Castiel turned to face him, and he resisted the urge to take Dean’s hands and bring him inside. He said flatly, “Thank you for getting me home without incident, Mr. Wesson.”</p><p>Dean’s face brightened, if that were possible. Somehow, for Dean, it always was. He shone very brightly.</p><p>“The pleasure is mine, Mr. Novak,” he said playfully. He hadn’t let go of Castiel’s wrist.</p><p><em>Kiss him</em>, Castiel told himself.</p><p>The air hung heavy between them. Gradually, Dean’s smile faded, leaving nothing but the memory of lines around his mouth and eyes. Castiel could feel the house waking up, could hear distant footsteps from downstairs. Outside, the dogs were barking.</p><p>Castiel touched his free hand to Dean’s wrist. Dean let him. His expression pinched, but his eyes didn’t.</p><p><em>Kiss him</em>. He wanted to be brave, bold.</p><p>“Cas,” Dean said in a breath. It sounded like a question, or at least the beginning of one—like it was something he needed permission to ask.</p><p>“Yes?”</p><p>Dean opened his mouth to say something, but then his eyes flashed again—and Castiel knew what it was that time. He felt it, too. Fear, uncertainty, longing. They were naked in Dean’s eyes.</p><p>“I better get to work,” Dean said. He remained still.</p><p><em>Kiss him</em>.</p><p>“Okay.”</p><p>Slowly, as if he were going finger by finger, Dean let go of his wrist. Castiel released him, too. Dean hovered for another long second before turning back from where they’d come.</p><p>Castiel’s chest clenched. He fisted his hands tightly at his sides. He stared at the wall across from him, where Dean had been standing. He listened to Dean’s footsteps.</p><p>There were a hundred reasons why Castiel should let him continue walking. None of them were good ones.</p><p>Castiel’s heart was pounding in his throat.</p><p>Maybe this was for the best. Dean would forget. Castiel would spend the rest of his life in a walking dream, and he would be okay with that. He told himself he would.</p><p>Unconvinced, he stepped into his bedroom and closed the door. He remained still, eyes on the knob, shoulders slouched and expression dejected. He listened to Dean’s footsteps recede.</p><p>And then the footsteps stopped.</p><p>There was a pause, and Castiel assumed Dean had reached the end of the hallway. He was likely headed back down the stairs, on his way outside to tend to his duties. Castiel knew he should dress in new clothes and drink his weight in coffee. He couldn’t bring himself to do anything apart from stand there, a fixed point in time, looking at the door, foolishly waiting for Dean to return.</p><p>He sighed, giving up.</p><p>And then the footsteps began again. By the sound of them, it was unmistakably Dean. Purposeful and loaded with determination, they reverberated through Castiel’s body.</p><p>He pulled his brows together, hope fluttering in his chest where his heart should have been. But that had gotten lodged in his throat.</p><p>The door swung open.</p><p>“You asshole,” Dean told him. “You <em>really</em> weren’t gonna say anything?”</p><p>Castiel’s frown deepened. “I… wasn’t aware it was up to me.”</p><p>Dean grunted in annoyance. He took a large step toward Castiel, closing the space. His hands wrapped around Castiel’s ribs and pulled him in, and Castiel had a mere moment of joy to realize what was happening before Dean kissed him.</p><p>Castiel came alive. He hooked his arm around Dean’s neck, pulling him in closer. His other hand went to Dean’s cheek.</p><p>They kissed slowly. Dean still tasted like moonshine. He had stubble on his cheek beneath Castiel’s palm. It was slow, sweet. Their noses brushed every time they changed positions. The ache in Castiel’s chest filled his entire body now. He wondered if Dean could taste it frothing from his mouth.</p><p>When it broke, Dean put his forehead on Castiel’s. They shared the air between them, and Castiel finally found enough of it to laugh. It didn’t really sound like a laugh. It was too broken, and too happy. It took him a second to realize that’s what he was feeling: happiness. It was too big in his chest, so big it almost felt like sadness. He could feel it beating along with his heart.</p><p>Dean laughed, too, his smile returning. Castiel felt it when Dean pecked another quick kiss to his lips.</p><p>Dean curled his fingers under Castiel’s chin and dragged the pad of his thumb along Castiel’s lower lip. With something like awe in his voice, he said, “Well, I’ll be damned.”</p><p>“I’ll be damned,” Castiel echoed in agreement. He leaned in and kissed Dean all over again.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>kk i figured i'd jerked you around enough. let's go ham.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Chapter 13</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>happy pie day. hope you enjoy reading these chaps with a slice or 12 of pie at your disposal. if you need me, that's where you'll find me (eating pie)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>2020</strong>
</p><p>As far as weddings went, it wasn’t exactly how Dean had pictured his. Or, that is, it wouldn’t have been if he ever actually pictured his own wedding, because he’d been starting to think that was never going to happen.</p><p>They didn’t actually go the next day, because, according to Google, Cas still needed documents to prove he existed in some capacity. Dean and Sam, working with the Amish cover story, did some more searching about how people who left the faith got anything done in society without a birth certificate or social security number. They came up with very little, except that it was possible to get a SSN through marriage.</p><p>Meanwhile, Cas talked to Kelly. She put in a favor at the county clerk’s office to get Dean and Cas an interview Monday morning with someone who could help. Dean, Cas, and Sam headed over to the courthouse first thing Monday and waited around for an hour for the interview. Dean did most of the talking. They sat around for another hour before they were given the forms they needed to apply for a marriage license and Cas’ SSN.</p><p>They handed the forms into the clerk, who told them to allow 3-5 days for their application to be approved. Dean had slapped the top of the desk and declared, “Guess we’re married,” and Cas didn’t stop beaming. He held Dean’s hand under the table throughout breakfast at the diner.</p><p>By the time Friday morning rolled around, they still hadn’t received their license in the mail. Dean had already called the court the day before just to check up on it, but the person over the phone informed him it was still “pending” and that “we’ll let you know if there’s an issue,” so he tried not to worry that they’d been rejected.</p><p>He was busying himself at the stove, watching his eggs sizzle on a skillet, when he heard footsteps on the stairs. He looked over his shoulder, finding Cas already dressed for work.</p><p>“’Morning, Mr. Winchester,” he said brightly. <em>Castiel Winchester</em>. It really rolled off the tongue, in Dean’s opinion.</p><p>Cas bit down on a shy smile at the greeting. “Good morning,” he said, striding toward Dean. Switching the spatula to his left hand, Dean held out his arm, inviting Cas to fit against him. He touched his palm to the small of Cas’ back, and Cas wrapped himself around Dean’s waist. He tucked his chin to Dean’s shoulder. “Did you check the mail yet?”</p><p>“Not yet,” Dean said. “Was gonna do that after I ate.” He poked at the crisping edges of the eggs with the corner of the spatula. “Why don’t you go sit down and I’ll make you a plate?”</p><p>Cas hummed in consideration before deciding, “I like where I am.” His arms tightened fractionally around Dean. He tilted his head to press a kiss to the side of Dean’s neck.</p><p>Dean turned his face into Cas to hide a blush. “That right?” he teased, and caught Cas’ lips. Cas kissed him back lazily, opening up to Dean to let their tongues slide together. Dean moaned into him, relishing it. Blindly, he set the spatula down and flicked off the stove’s flame, ignoring the sound of the eggs popping and hissing. He turned more fully into Cas.</p><p>Cas pressed Dean’s back against the counter, his hands cradling Dean’s jaw, deepening the kiss. Dean grabbed Cas’ waist, pulling their bodies flush. He slid his hand under the hem of Cas’ shirt and stroked his thumb along the bruise he’d kissed into Cas’ hip the night before.</p><p>“Hey, if you’ve got time before work, we could go upstairs and consummate our marriage,” he said, wiggling his brows temptingly.</p><p>Cas rolled his eyes, amused. “Dean, I already told you: you can only consummate a marriage once. After that, it’s just considered sex.”</p><p>Unhindered, Dean said, “Okay—we could go upstairs and <em>just sex</em> our marriage.”</p><p>Cas shook his head to avoid admitting Dean was hilarious. He leaned in for another kiss, and it was just getting good when the front door clicked open. Cas pulled away, but Dean tightened his arms to keep Cas against him. Sam walked through the door, hair slicked back with sweat, nose bright red from running in the cold, and sporting those ridiculous joggers that Dean swore were yoga pants but Sam insisted weren’t. He caught sight of them and shot Dean a self-important-little-brother smirk.</p><p>“’Morning,” Sam said.</p><p>Cas’ palms slid down from Dean’s jaw to rest on his chest. He said, “Good morning, Sam.” Dean rocked him gently from side-to-side.</p><p>Sam held up his arm, the mail clutched in his gloved hand. Among the pile was a large manila envelope. “I think it came.”</p><p>Dean’s heart skipped a beat. “Wait, for real?” he asked. He saw Cas’ eyes widen.</p><p>Sam walked around the island counter and slapped the mail onto it. “See for yourself.”</p><p>Excitement fluttering in his chest, Dean let go of Cas, swiped up the envelope, and tore it open. He slid the paper out of it, looking down at the copy of the certificate. Cas pressed in close to his side to read over his shoulder.</p><p>Their names and information were printed out in typewriter font in each section of the form, and the clerk’s signature was on the bottom. It looked like any other boring bureaucratic piece of paper—and Dean wanted to frame it.</p><p>“Okay. We’re officially hitched!”</p><p>“Mazel tov,” Sam said flatly, even though he was pleased. But Dean wasn’t really paying attention to him. His eyes were on Cas, whose blue gaze was sparkling back at him.</p><p>Dean wanted to celebrate. It felt a little unreal that he had to take a test in two hours, and then spend the rest of the afternoon at the garage. He snaked his arm around Cas’ back and yanked him in. “What were you saying about consummation?”</p><p>“Later,” Cas told him. “I have to go or I’ll be late.”</p><p>Dean gave a whine of protest, but relented. “Fine. I’ll see you tonight.”</p><p>Cas glanced over the counter briefly. “Bye, Sam,” he said, earning a wave in response. He pecked a gentle kiss to Dean’s lips. “Bye.”</p><p>“Bye,” Dean said, letting his hand slip from Cas at the last possible second while he walked away. He watched his husband shrug into his coat, and then Cas left through the front door.</p><p>Dean gingerly set the marriage license down on the counter, making sure there wasn’t anything there to stain or crinkle it. He felt Sam’s eyes on him, and glanced up to the humored, incredulous look on Sam’s face. “What?”</p><p>“Nothing,” Sam said, giving an exaggerated shrug. “I just can’t wait to see the look on Mom’s face when you tell her you’re married.”</p><p>Dean grumbled. He hated that his mom didn’t know, but he’d only told her about Cas a few days ago—and he left out about 99% of the details. As far as Mary was concerned, Dean had been “seeing someone.” She’d flip if she knew what that really meant.</p><p>“Yeah, I was thinking we hold off on that for a while,” he said cagily.</p><p>Sam gave a phlegmy sound. “Seriously? Dean, Thanksgiving’s next week—and we’re bringing Cas home for it. What, are you just gonna ignore the elephant in the room?”</p><p>“<em>No</em>.” Dean’s voice was squeaky around the word. He went back to his eggs on the stove, finding them cold and stuck to the skillet. Giving up on them, he swiped up his coffee instead and turned around to lean on the counter. “I just figured… You know, maybe we can wait until after I graduate? We could have a big party then and call that the wedding. That way, we give Mom at least a <em>little</em> time to get used to the idea.”</p><p>He sipped his coffee. It was lukewarm.</p><p>“Cas’ll be cool with that.”</p><p>Sam raised his brows like he wasn’t convinced. “Right. Sure. So, you’re just never gonna tell her what’s really going on?”</p><p>Dean let out a heavy breath—because, really, how many people did Sam want him to throw into the middle of this shitshow? “I dunno, Sam! Maybe!” He muttered into his coffee mug, “Gotta figure out how to tell her first.”</p><p>“Uh-huh. Just don’t drag me into it when that plan goes sideways.” He was such a drama queen.</p><p>“Alright, don’t crap your Lulu Lemons,” Dean said. “No one’s dragging you into anything. Keep your mouth shut and it’ll be fine.”</p><p>Sam looked less than convinced.</p><p>Dean puckered his lips in annoyance. “Dude, come on. Let me enjoy this for one fucking second, would you?”</p><p>Sam held up his palms in surrender. “Hey, I’m just playing devil’s advocate here.”</p><p>“Yeah, why don’t you play ‘Shut Up, Sam’?”</p><p>He put his coffee mug into the sink and crossed his arms. “I dunno. I just need a second to get my shit together,” he admitted, hoping Sam would allow him that, at least. “I mean, maybe this’ll help—” he gestured to the marriage license with his palm. “Who knows? Maybe things can get back to normal now. Or a <em>new</em> normal. Especially for Cas.” Maybe this would help convince Cas that he didn’t have to try to shoehorn himself into the 21st century. He had a place in the world. Dean didn’t know how to tell him that it was at his side. “Hell, I <em>married</em> the guy, and I still have no idea how to make him feel more at home.”</p><p>Sam’s expression turned more serious. He nodded like he already knew everything Dean was saying—and not saying. “Yeah, but, Dean—” He lifted his hand and let it fall back to the counter. “It’s gonna take him a little bit more time. You can’t force it.”</p><p>Dean wanted to laugh, because it was a little late for that. His eyes flickered back to the marriage license.</p><p>“And… I dunno,” Sam went on, “maybe Cas’ll feel like he has a steadier footing if he knows not <em>everything</em> about this century is different from where he comes from?”</p><p>Dean pulled a face. “What’s not different?”</p><p>Sam shrugged. “I’m sure there’s a lot of stuff. You just have to make the connection. But, if he has something familiar to grasp, maybe that’ll help.”</p><p>Dean mulled it over, an idea striking him. He nodded thoughtfully to himself. It would take a little bit of work, but Cas was worth it. It’d be a little wedding gift for him.</p><p>“Anyway,” Sam said, stepping backward. “I gotta go get ready. I have class in an hour.”</p><p>“Okay,” Dean said, not really hearing him. He was too busy planning.</p><p>Then Sam said, “And I’m probably gonna spend the night at Andy’s.” He waved his hand through the air. “I really don’t wanna be here while you and Cas… <em>consummate</em> or whatever.”</p><p>Dean pulled a lopsided smirk after him as Sam hustled up the stairs. When he was alone, he paced closer to the counter and picked up the marriage license, reading it over again.</p><p>He was married. Cas was his <em>husband</em>.</p><p>Dean closed his eyes, picturing Cas in their secret garden in the woods, his neck bowed while he read a book on the bench, Dean sitting on the ground between his knees, Cas’ fingers idly stroking Dean’s hair. Dean would tip his head back onto Cas’ lap and watch Cas for what felt like hours. Sometimes, Cas’ eyes would meet his, and he’d lean over to drop an upside-down kiss to Dean’s lips. And now that guy was Dean’s <em>husband</em>.</p><p>Dean held the piece of paper between two hands and brought it upstairs for safekeeping. Because it was proof—proof that Dean Wesson and Castiel Novak may have not had a happy ending, but Dean and Castiel Winchester would.</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p> </p><p>“Just a little bit further. C’mon, almost there.”</p><p>Giddy anticipation was cresting higher and higher inside of Dean with every backward step he took up the staircase. He couldn’t wait for the wave to crash against him; he couldn’t wait to see the look on Cas’ face when he got a load of the gift Dean had gotten him.</p><p>He’d bought it on his break in between class and work, and he’d skipped out of the garage about a half hour early to set it up before Cas got home.</p><p>And now Cas’ hands were in his, and the money Dean had blown on the gift would all be worth it. He led Cas further up the steps. Cas’ eyes were closed, like Dean had instructed him to do the second Cas walked through the door, but he was sighing with annoyance.</p><p>“Dean, this is ridiculous.”</p><p>“Hey!” Dean mock-scolded. “Remember the last time I gave you a gift? You loved it. Shut up and keep walking.”</p><p>They were almost at the top of the stairs. It was a slow process. Cas’ foot kept knocking against the next step, or he’d take his time placing his feet—as if the dude had never walked up a flight of stairs before. He kept fumbling.</p><p>“I’m not—” Another almost-trip that made Cas growl. “I’m not doubting you. I’m doubting why it’s necessary for me to keep my eyes closed <em>now</em>. Unless your surprise is at the top of the staircase.”</p><p>Okay, it was a fair point, but Dean wasn’t going to admit that.</p><p>Anyway, they were at the top now. “Just do it. Last step. Come on.”</p><p>Cas huffed again, and then they were at the top of the stairs.</p><p>Dean was practically bouncing with excitement. He tightened his grip on Cas’ hands and pulled him toward their room. He had to look over his shoulder to watch where he was going, and he shouldered open the door.</p><p>Once they were inside, Dean dropped Cas’ hands, and Cas let them swing at his side.</p><p>“Can I open them now?” Cas asked, pretending to be agitated. But Dean could see the hint of a smile on his lips.</p><p>He stepped closer to the instrument set up in the center of the room and held up his arms like the <em>Price is Right</em> models showing off an all-expenses paid vacation. “Yeah, open ‘em up!”</p><p>Cas blinked his eyes open, and they instantly landed on Dean. Dean’s stomach was fluttering. Half a second later, Cas’ gaze moved to his gift.</p><p>“Tah-da!” Dean said and dropped his arms.</p><p>Cas’ brow was lined in confusion. He shot Dean a suspicious look before pacing closer and getting a better view. Dean watched the realization dawn on Cas’ features. Cas lifted his hand, letting his fingers hover over the black and white keys.</p><p>Voice low, he said, “It’s a piano.”</p><p>“A keyboard, but yeah, same thing,” Dean told him. The flapping wings in his gut felt less like butterflies and more like bats now. He was sure Cas would like the gift, and the sales guy from the store told him it was a popular model. But it was no grand piano. Maybe Cas would find it insulting.</p><p>Cas pressed down on a key, and it didn’t produce any sound. He frowned.</p><p>“Oh, uh,” Dean said, springing into action. “You gotta—” He stepped closer and flipped the power switch on the top of the console. “Now try it.”</p><p>Cas pressed the key again. That time, a note came out of the speakers. It had a pretty good sound—but that’s not what Dean was focused on. Because the second the note played, a smile had bloomed onto Cas’ face. Dean was so damn happy.</p><p>“I love it,” Cas said, his eyes swooping back to Dean. “Thank you.”</p><p>“Don’t mention it,” Dean said, hardly able to get the words out.</p><p>Cas turned his attention back down to the keyboard. He gave a gentle chuckle. “It’s been so long. I hardly remember how to play anything.”</p><p>Dean’s emotion was suddenly tinged with sadness. But that didn’t matter. “It’ll come back,” he assured Cas. “And it can do other cool stuff, too. Like, look—” He pressed down on a button and told Cas to hit a key again. A guitar chord sounded. Cas tilted his head at the keyboard.</p><p>“It can do drums, too, I think.” He had no idea why anyone would want that. Moving on, he indicated some other buttons and explained, “And it can record and playback, too. And there’s, uh… Hang on.” He tried to remember what button the sales clerk had shown him. When he located it, a rendition of one of those classical songs Cas loved started playing. The keys lit up in red, indicating which to press to follow along with the song.</p><p>“It’s for people just learning,” Dean told him. He walked around the keyboard to meet Cas on the opposite side. “But I figured…” His nerves were back. He held out his hand in offering. “Wanna dance?”</p><p>Cas looked down at his hand for a beat, like he was unsure. Then, he slid his palm into Dean’s and stepped in closer. Dean didn’t know how to ballroom dance, but it was easier than he thought. It was like his feet just knew what to do. His hand was on Cas’ back, and Cas’ palm was on Dean’s shoulder; their others were clasped together. They swayed along to the music around the room.</p><p>“When did you have time to do this?” Cas asked him, sounding awestricken.</p><p>Dean shrugged, cheeks coloring. “I dunno. Today. Wanted to do something special now that we’re… you know. Married.” It still didn’t feel real. But the elation on Cas’ face was very real. Dean kept going: “I thought we could celebrate tonight, just you and me. I booked us a table at a restaurant in town.”</p><p>“A date?” Castiel teased, voice flat.</p><p>Dean snorted. “Can we date if we’re already married?” God, the more he said it, the more it sunk in.</p><p>“I don’t believe anyone will stop us,” Cas answered, and Dean guessed he was right. The music on the piano was still going. Cas followed Dean’s lead. After a moment, he said, “It’s good to know your dancing has improved in this life.”</p><p>Dean scoffed. “I was always a great dancer,” he lied. It felt like familiar banter.</p><p>Cas rolled his eyes. “I’m not having this debate again.”</p><p>When the song ended, they parted. Cas bowed his head to Dean, and Dean did the same, feeling a little silly.</p><p>“Okay,” he said, eyes flashing to the clock on the desk. “Dinner’s in like, a half hour, so why don’t you get showered and we’ll head over?”</p><p>“Of course,” Cas said. He cast another look at the keyboard, features softening again. Dean melted. “Thank you again, Dean.”</p><p>Dean didn’t know what to say to that. Cas sounded too damn genuine. He broke the heaviness hanging around them by saying, “No problem. Your wedding gift to me can be a blowjob.”</p><p>Castiel scoffed in response, but all it did was make Dean chuckle. Dean watched him walk out the room to get ready for their combination first date/marriage celebration.</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p> </p><p>Dinner had been at some white-cloth-table, forks-on-the-left type restaurant that Dean hadn’t even known existed until that afternoon. He didn’t know what any dish on the menu was without Googling it first—and there was no way he was going to do that. There was also no way he’d risk looking like an idiot by asking the waitress, because he recognized her from his freshman year pop culture class, so that would be awkward.</p><p>He ended up ordering some kind of venison dish, which was pretty good, but he was appalled to find out it was Bambi’s mom. Cas had gotten some French-sounding thing that he pronounced flawlessly, and for a minute, Dean wondered why Cas had married someone so far under his league.</p><p>He forgot that when Cas hooked his foot around Dean’s ankles under the table and asked the waitress if they could get a couple of glasses of champagne “for my husband and myself.” His tone had been so warm, eyes twinkling in the low mood lighting of the restaurant. The waitress had smiled brightly and told them she’d bring it right out. A part of Cas sighed in relief when he realized he wasn’t going to be shunned for loving another dude.</p><p>A part of Dean still did that, too, sometimes.</p><p>After Dean tried not to have a heart attack over the bill, he and Cas got back into the Impala and wove through the weekend-packed streets of Amherst. Dean pointed the car in the direction of the mountain range outside of town. He jumped on Route 9 toward Hadley.</p><p>Cars zipped past on the opposite lane, one asshole with his brights on nearly blinding them. But Dean was too preoccupied to care. A rumbling was going through his stomach that had almost nothing to do with the venison and a lot to do with the weight in his pocket. Dean had done his damnedest to clean off the black and green tarnish that discolored his mother’s old wedding band. He buffed it until it sparkled silver, but it still smelled heavily of varnish, and he had no idea if it would fit Cas. Hell, even if it did, he didn’t know if Cas would want to wear it.</p><p>Charlie was always talking about how wedding rings are part of the “system” that “claimed” women as “property” and that they might as well be a brand on the skin. Maybe Cas would think the same. It was a ring, but Cas might see it as a handcuff. He might regret his decision and tell Dean that he wanted to be married in name only. Or he wanted a divorce.</p><p>But, when Dean briefly closed his eyes, he saw the wonderstruck way Cas had looked at him when Dean had first given him the ring. Dean honestly didn’t know if it was a memory or wishful thinking—but he hoped for the former.</p><p>“I enjoyed our meal,” Cas said, and it took Dean a second to realize he’d spoken at all. He figured it out about the same time he noticed he’d been driving on autopilot for ten minutes.</p><p>“Uh, yeah,” he answered, clearing his throat. It sounded too-loud inside the Impala’s cab. “It was good.” It wasn’t that good, but it was <em>expensive</em>, so Dean was determined to retroactively enjoy every bite.</p><p>In his transparent reflection on the passenger window, Dean saw Cas pull his brows together in question. Cas turned his head toward Dean. His expression was riddled with amusement. “You didn’t like it.”</p><p>“What?” Dean exclaimed, voice bouncing around the car’s interior. “No. It was great.” Cas could see right through him. He raised a brow. Dean sighed and looked back to the road. The turn off was coming up. “It was different,” he allowed. “Which is alright—you know, for special occasions. I just…” He shrugged. “I dunno, man. I wanted you to have a dinner like you used to have. Like Benny used to make.”</p><p>The restaurant hadn’t even come close to that, but Dean didn’t think anything ever would.</p><p>He could still feel Cas’ eyes, radiating with fondness, on his profile. Cas said, “It’s appreciated, but it isn’t necessary. I don’t need expensive food to be happy.” Dean really wished Cas had told him that before he paid. “Though, I do miss Benny’s peach cobbler.”</p><p>Dean barked out a laugh, aching nostalgia for his friend overwhelming him for a second. “Right? And do you remember his steak tips? <em>Man</em>, I think I’ve been subconsciously trying to get the marinade right for years. Wish I could call him up for the recipe.”</p><p>“That would be nice,” Cas mused while Dean put on his blinker and turned onto a dark road that wound up the mountain. He narrowed his eyes and looked out the windshield like he just noticed they weren’t headed home. “Where are we going?”</p><p>Dean swallowed, the memories of the past drifting away and depositing him back in the present. “It’s a surprise,” he said, his voice a little rougher than before. He wrung his hands on the steering wheel. Cas shot him a skeptical glare. Dean rolled his eyes. “You’ll like it. I think.” Then, a little defensively: “Just trust me.”</p><p>Cas exhaled and nodded. “Of course, Dean,” he said, resigned. Cas hated surprises, probably because he was so damn impatient. Dean didn’t know why he got such a kick out of making Cas wait.</p><p>The road continued to snake up the mountain. The Connecticut River was below, twinkling orange from the lights of the houses nestled into the bare trees. There was a suspension bridge nearby, white headlights and red taillights from the distantly revving motorcade moving along it. Dean’s ears popped the higher they got.</p><p>About five minutes later, he reached the spot that he was pretty sure was their destination. Even if it wasn’t the exact right spot, it was pretty close—and it’d have to do. It was a scenic lookout on the side of the road. There was a small, dirt shoulder where he could pull off the road to face the river. A wooden fence stood between the car and a rocky outcropping on the side of the mountain. There was a weathered plaque giving some facts about the river, which winded through the valley below. The stars were scattered above, even though there were nowhere near as many as remembered. He guessed they were still there, just hidden in the darkness.</p><p>Dean glanced around the area. It felt right, down to his bones. Familiar.</p><p>He put the car into park and skittishly glanced over to Cas, wondering if he remembered this spot. Dean had kind of been banking on that.</p><p>Cas was staring around, expression shifting as if he was struggling to remember a word. It sat on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn’t get it out. Dean knew the feeling.</p><p>Then, Cas’ eyes widened. His head snapped quickly in Dean’s direction like he wanted to confirm his theory.</p><p>Dean melted, relief blooming warm inside of him as the nervousness slipped away. He relaxed against the vinyl bench and hooked his arm over the top of the seat. He oriented himself fully toward Cas. “This ringing any bells?”</p><p>“If you pull out a bottle of moonshine, I’m walking home,” Cas threatened. Dean laughed in surprise. He pulled a frown.</p><p>“No moonshine. Promise.”</p><p>He licked his lips, heart rate picking up again. The ring in his pocket seemed to grow weightier. It demanded his attention, and Dean wondered if he should just get it out of the way or forget it altogether.</p><p>“Good,” Cas said. He turned back to the scenery. Dean was holding his breath, but Cas didn’t seem to notice. “It looks so different now.”</p><p>Dean pressed his lips together and turned his eyes toward the overlook. There used to be nothing for miles. Now, the lights of civilization were speckled everywhere, and there was a highway to their backs. A car drove by, the whoosh it created making the Impala rock gently. “Yeah.”</p><p>“Everything’s so different,” Cas said, voice so low that Dean wasn’t sure what to make of it. He couldn’t tell if Cas was happy about that or upset. Cas’ gaze swung back to meet Dean’s, and Dean’s heart skipped in the worry that he was different, too. Unrecognizable to Cas. He didn’t want that.</p><p>Cas sidled in a little closer across the seat. Like he was discussing the weather, like it was nothing at all, he said, “This is where I realized I was in love with you.”</p><p>Dean balked for a good ten seconds. “You—what?”</p><p>Cas nodded. “I don’t know when it actually happened, if there was a singular moment at all.” He thinned his lips thoughtfully and glanced back at the river. “But I first became aware of it here.”</p><p>Dean never knew that. He wished he could say the same. But, like Cas, he didn’t know if there was a lightbulb moment of revelation. He wasn’t even sure if there was an “<em>oh</em>” moment. If there had been, he didn’t remember it. Maybe Dean Wesson would; but, for Dean, his love for Cas had always been there. It sat beneath the top layer of his skin, closer to him than air. Sometimes, he wondered if it was too big for his body.</p><p>“That’s, uh…” He dipped his head, not really sure what the hell to say to that. His ears were burning.</p><p>“What made you bring us here?” Cas asked.</p><p>Dean cleared his throat again, remembering the ring. “I dunno. Guess it’s… familiar. Might look different but…”</p><p>Cas was giving him a curious look. Dean didn’t know how to interpret it, but he thought it was best to power through.</p><p>“And there’s this.” Was he fumbling? He felt awkward. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the ring, holding it up to Cas.</p><p>Cas’ brow pinched before his eyes focused on the band. A smile spread to his face. Dean felt like he could collapse with how quickly his muscles went slack.</p><p>“Are you asking me to be re-marry you?” Cas joked.</p><p>Dean huffed. “No, but… You know, I cleaned it. Still kinda stinks. But… If you wanna wear it?” This was the worst proposal ever. “Only if you want to, though. And we can get me one, too. Can’t promise it’ll stop the ladies from flirting with me at bars, but—”</p><p>“Well, they can’t help themselves,” Cas deadpanned. Unceremoniously, he plucked the ring from Dean’s hand and slid it on his finger. It seemed to fit well enough. It might have been a little bit too small, but they could get that fixed. Probably.</p><p>Cas held up his hand to show Dean. “How does it look?”</p><p>There was a boulder sitting on top of Dean’s chest. He could barely gasp for breath, let alone speak. “Yeah, good. Awesome.” He didn’t know why that was funny, or why he laughed.</p><p>Cas was beaming. He admired the band for another second before letting his hand fall back to his lap.</p><p>“Okay,” Dean said, not knowing what the hell else to say. “We’re married.” He wondered if the rush those words gave him would ever wear off.</p><p>It was even better when he heard Cas saying them. “We’re married.”</p><p>The roiling in Dean’s gut was replaced with a flutter. He folded his arm around Cas’ shoulder and pulled him in for a kiss. Cas responded at once, his hands coming up to frame Dean’s jaw. The silver of the ring pressed into Dean’s skin.</p><p>Just when Dean was about to suggest they head home and go to bed, his phone buzzed in the back pocket of his jeans. It reverberated against the seat. Cas must have heard it. He inched away. “Do you want to get that?”</p><p>Dean almost said no, but it could have been Sam. Besides, they couldn’t sit on the side of the highway all night just to make out—no matter how tempting that sounded.</p><p>Dean groaned and pulled back. Cas straightened out in his seat, expression still soft and eyes full of something too big to name while he watched Dean lift his hip to pull his phone out.</p><p>There was a text from Charlie.</p><p>Dean tried not to get ahead of himself. It’d been over a week since Charlie said she’d reach out to Dorothy. Dean knew she had, but Dorothy never responded. Dean had pretty much given up hope that she ever would. This text was probably inviting him and Cas over to watch movies and eat pizza tomorrow. It was probably nothing.</p><p>“Dean?” Cas asked, voice changed. Dean didn’t know what his face was doing to prompt that response.</p><p>He didn’t answer. He slid open the notification.</p><p>
  <em>She answered. Said she’d do it. Is tomorrow ok?</em>
</p><p>A muscle in Dean’s jaw popped when he bit down. He read the text two more times just to make sure it was real.</p><p>“Who is it?” Cas asked off Dean’s silence.</p><p>Dean lifted his eyes to him. He reminded himself there was no guarantee this would work. Hell, it probably wouldn’t.</p><p>Maybe he was hoping it wouldn’t.</p><p>“Dorothy.”</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p> </p><p>There was sage burning, so they were already off to a pretty stupid start. Dean couldn’t take any of this seriously. He’d already had to stifle his laughter three times when Dorothy started talking about <em>manifesting intentions</em> and <em>finding your heart-center</em> in her usual clipped, firm tone of voice that left no room for argument.</p><p>If Charlie hadn’t been standing right there, Dean would have joked that he’d almost missed Dorothy’s unique brand of crazy.</p><p>He was sitting on his couch in the living room, Cas on the next cushion, leaning into him like a mother lion protecting its cub. Dean wasn’t really sure why, because Cas had already openly groaned about how this was a waste of time after Dorothy’s whole spiel, so what did he really think was the worst that could happen? He was making Dean nervous. Or, actually, Dean had a bad feeling all on his own ever since he got Charlie’s text last night. He’d never really trusted Dorothy, and now he was going to let her go poking around in his aura.</p><p>He glanced at Charlie, who was currently lighting thick white candles that Dorothy had pulled out of her backpack. They sat in a circle on the coffee table, standing at various heights. Sam was closing the curtains, in both the living room and the kitchen. The afternoon sun filtered through the fabric, casting the entire downstairs level of the townhouse in a murky, subdued light.</p><p>Dorothy was smudging the sage in basically every nook and cranny. The room smelled mildly of overheated grass baking under the summer’s sweltering sun. She walked over to Dean and wafted the delicate gray smoke around his face without even asking. Cas scowled. Dean coughed.</p><p>“Get that thing away from me,” he growled, holding his arm up in guard to push Dorothy away without touching her.</p><p>Dorothy clicked her tongue in annoyance. “You want my help or not? ‘Cause I’ll leave.”</p><p>Still kneeling on the floor, Dean caught Charlie rolling her eyes dramatically.</p><p>Dean sighed. The smoke was still caught in his throat. He decided it was better not to argue. He flapped up his hands and let them fall back to his lap, gesturing for her to keep going. When she was done, she turned around quickly, her long, braided ponytail arcing around her.</p><p>“Okay, that should do it,” she announced. She placed the still smoking bundle of sage on the table next to the candles, and Dean tried not to think about whether it would harm the wood.</p><p>Sam drifted back into the living room from the kitchen, his hands in his back pockets and eyes wide open and questioning, ready to jump on whatever task he was asked to do next. Dean appreciated the support. He also kind of hated it.</p><p>He’d had a nauseous sensation in the pit of his gut and sitting at the bottom of his throat all morning. It didn’t help that he’d dreamed of blood and bodies again. But, while he sat there waiting, the discomfort had ratcheted up a few notches. His knees bounced. One fist was held tightly on his lap and, he realized, his other was squeezing Cas’ hand. He wondered if he should run to the bathroom to throw up before they got started.</p><p>“It should?” Dean said, looking around. He didn’t feel any different. Maybe this was just BS, after all. He knew it. “I don’t remember anything.”</p><p>Dorothy scoffed and folded her arms over her chest. “Yeah, because we haven’t started yet, dummy.”</p><p>“Hey! Don’t call him a dummy,” Charlie argued.</p><p>“Just,” Sam said, holding up his hand to play peacekeeper, “guys, come on. Let’s hear what she has to say.”</p><p>“<em>Thank</em> you,” Dorothy told him pointedly before directing her attention back to Dean. “There’s a few ways to get a reading on past lives, but judging by what you’re looking for, I think accessing the Akashic Records is our best method.”</p><p>“The what?” Cas asked, beating Dean to the punch.</p><p>“Yeah, uh, I came across those in my research about past lives,” Sam butt in. “It’s kinda like a database. Like Jung’s collective unconscious.”</p><p>“Who’s whosey what?” Dean asked with a rattle of his head. None of this was making him feel better. He glanced at Cas, who seemed equally lost.</p><p>“Right,” Dorothy told Sam. To the rest of the group, she explained, “The Akashic Records are basically a blueprint of everything that’s ever happened. Every event, every word spoken, every thought anybody’s ever had in the universe—and other universes. It’s all there.”</p><p>Dean ignored the <em>other universes</em> part, because he was still on the <em>past lives</em> thing and there was only so much he could unpack in one lifetime.</p><p>“There’s one for the collective, like Sam said,” Dorothy went on, “but there’s also one for each individual soul. We need to access yours.”</p><p>“Okay,” Dean said, trying to parse it out. “So, basically it’s a computer and I’m a USB and you’re gonna plug me in?”</p><p>Dorothy paused, chewing on it. “Sure.”</p><p>Dean licked his lips, trying to quell his nerves. The scent of the sage was starting to make him lightheaded. “Great. How?”</p><p>Dorothy folded her hands in front of her and paced around a little, saying, “Well, the Akashic Records are on another plane of existence—” <em>Of course, they are.</em> Dean tried not to roll his eyes. “You can access them, but it takes practice. But, hey, that’s why I’m here, right?” She shot Charlie a wink. Charlie scowled. “I can help you match your vibrations to the ones the Records give off.”</p><p>“I can do that. Easy. Me and Cas matched vibrations last night,” Dean joked, pushing a grin. Cas shot him an unamused look. So did everyone else. Dean shut up, letting his smile turn to a grimace and then fade altogether. He would have felt better if <em>someone</em> had laughed, because the tension in the room was way too thick now and he couldn’t deal with that. But now he was just embarrassed on top of freaked out. It wasn’t a good combination.</p><p>Sam got them back on track by saying with interest, “How does it work?”</p><p>“I’ll take you through a guided meditation to help you free your mind and state your intention. We do it right, you’ll be able to ask the Records whatever you wanna know about your past life.”</p><p>It sounded like crap, especially because Dean had never been good at meditation. He either fell asleep or became <em>too</em> aware of his thoughts. Sam had always been better with that self-help yoga shit. The only thing that ever really turned Dean’s brain off was driving long distances or random, meaningless sex. He guessed Dorothy wasn’t offering either of those things.</p><p>“Like I said, we just have to get you on the right—” She was clearly fishing for a word that wasn’t <em>vibrations</em>. She landed on, “frequency.”</p><p>Dean thought of driving again. “So, I’m an AM radio and you’re gonna tune me to—”</p><p>“No more weird analogies,” Dorothy interrupted. Dean wanted to call <em>her</em> weird but bit his tongue. “But, yeah. Basically.”</p><p>Dean nodded, tensing himself like he was about to get into a fistfight. “Okay. How do we start?”</p><p>“Well, relax, firstly,” Dorothy told him.</p><p>Dean untensed himself as best as he could. His eyes met Cas’ for a brief flash, and he did his best to assure Cas that he was alright by squeezing his hand and letting him go. Dean placed both hands on his lap.</p><p>“Close your eyes,” Dorothy told him, “and focus on your breathing.”</p><p>Dean did as he was told. Or, he tried. The closing his eyes part had been easy at first, but the longer it went on, the more he wanted to sneakily wink them open. And focusing on his breathing only made him start panicking that he’d forget how to breathe autonomically again when all this was over. He felt his pulse pick up, and he was pretty sure that was the opposite of what they were going for. He could feel everyone’s eyes on him.</p><p>He tried to picture the radio in the Impala. He thought of himself scrubbing through the stations until he found one that came in without static. And then <em>For Those About to Rock</em> got stuck in his head.</p><p>“Picture yourself drifting,” Dorothy said, voice becoming soft and monotonous, and Dean barely recognized it. Maybe she was better at this shit than Dean gave her credit for. “Let feeling leave your body. Imagine it collecting in your fingertips and toes. Pull it back, up your arms and legs. Bring it to your heart-center.”</p><p>Dean was more aware of his fingers and toes than he ever had been in his life. His nose itched.</p><p>He sucked at this.</p><p>“This isn’t working,” he yelled, bursting his eyes open.</p><p>Dorothy sighed. “You’re not focusing.”</p><p>“I’m <em>focusing</em>,” he argued. “I can’t <em>stop</em> focusing. That’s the issue.”</p><p>“Maybe he needs something else to focus on,” Sam suggested.</p><p>Forcing patience, Dorothy nodded. “Right, yeah,” she agreed. “Okay.” She waved an arm at Dean. “We’ll find something else. Maybe a point on your body.”</p><p>Dean opened his mouth and drew in air.</p><p>“<em>Don’t</em>,” Dorothy scolded him before he was even able to make the joke. Dean withered, grumbling. When he was done, Dorothy said, “Close your eyes.”</p><p>Dean did. And then he felt like he was getting a tour of his entire body. He was told, in that gentle and measured voice, to focus on the heel of his palm, his fingers, his stomach, his throat. Dean did a slow scan of his person, and he had to admit, he did feel a little more relaxed, but he still didn’t feel like he was connecting to a higher plane of existence or whatever.</p><p>And then, he felt a phantom pressure on his left shoulder. He didn’t know why, because Dorothy hadn’t instructed him to think about it. His mind zeroed in on it. The skin tingled slightly, and the sensation was muscle-deep. He couldn’t stop thinking about.</p><p>Slowly, he reached across his body and touched his hand to the spot. It didn’t make the feeling go away—the feeling that something was missing. He became aware of Cas beside him, the feel of him despite the fact that they were inches away from touching.</p><p>Dorothy was still talking, but Dean didn’t register what she was saying. He forgot she was even there, really. And he forgot about Sam and Charlie’s presence, too. The smoke didn’t clog his nose anymore. The only real thing was Cas.</p><p>Before Dean knew he was doing it, he was reaching for Cas’ wrist. He heard Cas say, “Dean?” Dean didn’t answer. He brought Cas’ hand to his shoulder. He didn’t know why, but it felt right. The tingling feeling seemed to collect along the place where Cas’ skin met Dean’s sleeve, a perfect outline. It almost burned.</p><p>Dean’s thoughts were spacing out. His body was numb and weightless around him, as if on the cusp of sleep. The only thing he was aware of was the place where Cas’ hand rested.</p><p>
  <em>He heard the rush of water in a stream. And music—piano music. He could smell fresh dirt. Something soft touched his fingertips, and he pictured the bright red petal of a rose. He followed the sound of the music…</em>
</p><p>But then, that drifted, too. The world sank further away.</p><p>
  <em>He smelled burning. Flashes of flickering flames danced in front of his eyes, burnishing themselves into his irises…</em>
  
</p><p>
  <em>“Stay in here, Dean. Don’t look.” That was his father’s voice. There was a weight in Dean’s arms…</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Screaming. He heard screaming…</em>
</p><p>
  <em>There was a pricking sensation on his chest, like the point of a knife. It slashed down his arms. Dean could barely feel it, though…</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Goodnight, Dean,” his mother said…</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He smelled gunpowder. It was on his hands. Smoke rose from the barrel of a gun…</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Screaming. A man was screaming…</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Do it, Dean! Now!” John shouted in agony…</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The pain was seeping in, getting closer to his skin. Something wet and sticky clung to him…</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“You know what to do, right? If this thing goes south?” That was his own voice…</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Goodnight, Dean,” Mary said, voice tender and sweet. She kissed the top of Dean’s head. Dean was small, sleepy. He rested against his pillow. His eyes fluttered heavily as he watched his mother blow out the candle on his bedside table. She left the room. He thought he’d see her in the morning…</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Consciousness was slipping away. The wet substance was all over him now. It was hot, but he felt so cold. Pain so intense he forgot it hurt at all still throbbed along every inch of his body. “Take ‘em here,” his own voice echoed in his skull. “Bury ‘em with Cas...”</em>
  
</p><p>
  <em>“Stay in here, Dean. Don’t look,” John said. The charcoal skeleton of their home was around them. Dean was in the remains of a cupboard. Sam was a sleeping bundle in his arms. “Watch out for Sammy,” John told him. He stood up. Behind him, there was a group of men in suits and women in robes. Something was painted on the floor. Candles were lit. John closed the door. There was darkness…</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Flames. They grew high up to the night sky. Something crashed as a part of the house collapsed. Dean stood on the front yard, Sam a heavy weight of blankets in his arms. His wide eyes stared at the fire. The grass was damp under his bare feet. And then he was swept up, into his father’s arms, and carried to the gravel road. He didn’t see his mother. He was too young to understand why she wasn’t there. But still, even so young, he thought he knew. Deep in his bones…</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Do it, Dean! Now!” his father shouted. He was on the floor, writing. A woman stood above him, blood deep and bright on her outraised hands. As red as her hair. Her hair was the color of flames. “Now, son!” John shouted. Sam was in Dean’s arms, bleeding. He was heavy, hurt, hardly able to stand on his own. Dean swayed on his feet. He barely had the strength to raise the gun in his hand. The woman turned around. She let out a scream so feral, it sounded more like a roar…</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Screaming. Writhing. Pain. Wet, sticky blood…</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Bury ‘em with Cas...”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Don’t look.” Dean nodded as a promise. It was dark. Then, light filtered in from a crack in the cupboard. He looked out of it, at the men and women, at his father. A soft-spoken woman stepped forward, face pinched with concern, and said, “You’re sure you want to do this, John? Your boys…” But John wasn’t hearing it. He shook his head. “My boys will be fine, Missouri. We’re doing this. We’re getting her back.” Another man said, “Not everyone agrees. Bobby Singer even refused to come—” And John cut him off with, “Forget about what Bobby thinks. We’re doing this.” Dean knew that tone of voice. It made his blood run cold, made his shoulders square up and his back go ramrod straight, ready to exact any order that came next. Dean knew that tone of voice. But there, in the cupboard, he didn’t know it yet…</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The woman’s scream sounded more like a roar. He always thought, if this moment ever came, he’d be ruthless—merciless. Not this. Not hollowed out inside. Not terrified. Dean pulled the trigger…</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“With Cas,” he said…</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“We’re doing this,” John had said, uncompromising. He was on the floor now, in the center of the sigil painted there. He was screaming, writhing. In agony. There was red, sticky blood. It pooled everywhere. There were tears on Dean’s cheeks, silent sobs racking up his chest. There was chanting…</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Screams. Pain…</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“With Cas...”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>A firebrand touched his shoulder. Dean ripped his eyes open. He saw blue. It worked…</em>
  
</p><p>
  <em>Chanting. John had gone still, the last of his screams having been ripped from his throat. They still rung in Dean’s ears. Missouri shouted, “Stop! Something’s wrong!” But it was too late. A burst of white light swelled in the room. Dean tore his eyes away. He folded his body in over Sam, desperate to protect him from the blast…</em>
  
</p><p>
  <em>“Watch out for Sammy…”</em>
  
</p><p>
  <em>“With Cas...”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>His throat was raw. The knives kept slashing. He ripped his eyes open.</em>
</p><p>“Dean!”</p><p>Dean was gasping. The first thing he saw was the blue of Cas’ eyes, and, inexplicably, he thought, <em>it worked</em>. He didn’t know what that meant.</p><p>He didn’t know where he was. His eyes flashed wildly around the foreign room. There were two women. He’d never seen them before. His eyes found Sam, whose face was drained of color while he rushed to Dean’s side. He was in strange clothes. So was Cas.</p><p>“Dean! Can you hear me?” Cas said. His fingers were digging into Dean’s shoulder.</p><p>“Dean? <em>Dean</em>!” Sam called, voice deep and terrified. He was clutching Dean’s shirt, fists twisting the fabric. He turned to one of the women. Her eyes were wide, mouth hanging open in shock. He demanded, “What did you do to him?” The woman only stuttered. The other one—the redhead—rushed over to her, cheeks glistening with panicked tears. The brunette threw her arms around her and the redhead buried her face into her shoulder, shaking with sobs.</p><p>Dean didn’t know what was going on. Distantly, he heard himself said, “With Cas.” He realized he’d said it over and over again. A mantra. “With Cas.”</p><p>“I’m here, Dean,” Cas said, and Dean barely heard it.</p><p>Somewhere deep down, he kept thinking furiously, <em>It worked</em>. He didn’t know why the words repeated in his head. They made no sense. He didn’t know what was real.</p><p>He didn’t know where he was.</p><p>“With Cas,” he heard himself say again. It was hard to breathe. Every inhale felt like knives in his throat.</p><p>“Dean? Dean, can you hear me?” Sam’s voice was desperate.</p><p>Dean’s throat was scratched raw. Had he been screaming?</p><p>“Dean?” Cas took his hand off Dean’s shoulder and placed it on Dean’s face. Dean gasped, sharp and loud.</p><p>He blinked, eyelids heavy. He collapsed back against the couch. The living room was spinning. His breathing was evening out. He heard himself speaking, but he didn’t know what he was saying.</p><p>Charlie was still crying. Dorothy clung to her in the threshold leading into the kitchen.</p><p>Dean heard himself say, “It worked.”</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p> </p><p>The bathwater had grown lukewarm around him. His legs were freezing where he had them propped up out of the water, wedged against the tile wall while he squeezed himself into the tiny shower/bath combo. It was the first time he’d taken a bath in this apartment. Hell, it was the first time he’d taken one since he was a toddler and his mom still shampooed his hair. But he was too exhausted to stand up for a shower.</p><p>He didn’t know how long he’d been soaking. No one had come knocking on the door since he locked it behind him. It might have been hours. Dean lost track. He sunk deeper into the tepid water, pushing his ears under, his face. There was a silent rush filling his senses. He held his breath against it and closed his eyes. It didn’t relax him any.</p><p>His body was tensed in a way it never had been before. He could feel it, his adrenaline like a current in his veins. It was dormant now, but not in a resting way. It was ready to open the floodgates at any time—to coil his muscles and grip a gun or duck and run. Earlier, Sam had put a bowl of cereal in front of him, trying to make Dean eat, and Dean had almost decked him when Sam first walked up behind him. He’d eaten the cereal like food was scarce, even though he’d bought a new box just that weekend.</p><p>The worst part was: all of it felt natural. Dean inwardly cursed himself for letting his guard down for the past twenty-two years.</p><p>He skewed his eyes tighter. A faint burn was starting up in his lungs, letting him know it’d be time to breathe soon.</p><p>He pictured that door in his head. There was no more scratching. It was wide open now. Everything had toppled out like linens piled precariously too high. But there was still something in there, sitting in the dark corner. Dean thought about reaching in, bringing it to the light. He didn’t know how. He didn’t <em>want</em> to know how.</p><p>It kept sitting there, wedged into the corner like Pandora’s box. Except it didn’t feel like hope.</p><p>He was mixing his analogies now.</p><p>The point was, Dean remembered. He remembered his mother’s death. He remembered the Men of Letters. He remembered the traveling, the hunting. The settling. The war.</p><p>When he was able to, he’d told Sam, Cas, and Charlie all about it. Dorothy had packed up and left pretty quickly after he’d come to. She’d seemed spooked, probably because she never thought her BS past lives meditation would actually work. And Charlie had left a couple hours ago, face drawn and pallid and eyes bruised tiredly, her weak attempts at jokes falling flat. Sam kept looking at Dean like he was a wounded animal. And Cas…</p><p>Well, Dean didn’t think Cas had looked at him directly all night. Dean felt his eyes when Cas thought he wasn’t looking. Whenever Dean tried to meet his gaze, Cas would quickly turn away.</p><p>Apparently, this experience hadn’t just been scarring for Dean. Probably because, from the second he went under, he started screaming “bloody murder,” as Charlie had put it. As evidence, Dean’s throat still hurt from it.</p><p>He didn’t know why he’d been screaming. He didn’t want to know. That piece of knowledge was better left in the dark behind the door. Dean went cold thinking, one day, it’d waltz right out when he least expected it.</p><p>His lungs tightened, begging for air. Dean pushed up out of the water violently, eyes tearing open and sucking in gasps of humid air. The water sloshed around him and tipped out over the yellowing porcelain of the tub to puddle on the floor.</p><p>He blinked around the tiny bathroom. The fog on the mirror had cleared, leaving rivulets of dripping condensation on the glass. The overhead lights were a pale yellow. Dean let his breaths even out before deciding the water was too cold now. He was pruning, anyway.</p><p>Five minutes later, he walked out of the bathroom, dressed for bed in a t-shirt at sweats, hair damp and feet bare. The lights were off in the living room and kitchen, meaning Sam and Cas had gone to bed. Dean’s eyes flickered to the clock above the stove. It was pushing 1 AM. Thank God tomorrow was Sunday. He planned on sleeping all day.</p><p>His gaze moved to the window behind the sink, then to the front door. He swiveled his head to the living room—more windows, the backdoor. They were weak points. Dean had never seen them as weak points before. He used to think just locking them would be enough, but there were bigger threats than burglars.</p><p>Or were there? Witches had been dying out. Maybe they weren’t a threat anymore. Or maybe there’d been a resurgence? A lot could happen in a century and a half.</p><p>Without thinking, Dean went to the drawer next to the sink and ripped it open. He searched through the wooden spoons, spatulas, and scissors for the black Sharpie they kept in there. Once it was in hand, he went to the front door and drew a protection sigil on the frame to ward off magic. He went to the back door and drew another.</p><p>His gut swam when he considered the windows.</p><p>Salt. Salt was pure. It’d neutralize any curses. Tomorrow, he’d head into town to get some herbs to make a poultice that would counter any spells cast on the house.</p><p>They only had kosher salt in the cabinet, but it would do for now. He rushed to the bay window and poured it along the windowsill. The crystals whispered as they tumbled from the box’s metal spout. They scattered, some falling down to the counter. It was a mess.</p><p>Dean sucked in a breath and pulled his arm back.</p><p>“What the hell am I doing?” he muttered. This was stupid. He was an idiot. There was no threat—especially one that a condiment would protect him against.</p><p>Every atom in his body told him he was wrong in that line of thinking. That he knew better. Denying it any longer was irresponsible.</p><p>He put the box of salt down and clasped his hand to his eyes, rubbing his temples in slow circles.</p><p>He needed sleep. Now. Before his legs gave up on him.</p><p>Deciding to clean the salt and the marker in the morning, he trudged up the stairs. Maybe he was still too wrapped up in his thoughts, but it wasn’t until he was on the third step from the top that he realized the house wasn’t as quiet as it seemed. There was the muffled sound of piano notes—nowhere near a full song. It sounded like Cas was just pressing down on the same one or two keys at varying intervals. Still, the tune was strikingly familiar; Dean just couldn’t pinpoint it.</p><p><em>G-major</em>, his mind supplied him with out of nowhere.</p><p>He followed the sound to their bedroom door. He opened it, the music becoming louder before abruptly cutting off as Cas looked up quickly from where his chin was propped in his hand. His eyes widening fractionally. He was still wearing his wedding ring, so Dean took that as a win at least.</p><p>Dean swallowed down his anxiety and tried for a smile. “Hey.”</p><p>Cas blinked at him for a long moment before asking, “How are you feeling?”</p><p>“I’m good.” He didn’t mention the adrenaline in his veins. He didn’t mention that it was there, lingering, because he was scared. He was choked with fear—all the time. And he wasn’t used to that anymore. Not in this life, anyway.</p><p>Even though Cas probably knew he was lying, he nodded slowly and averted his gaze back to the keyboard. It was pushed into the corner between the wall and the foot of the bed, a chair from the kitchen table set in front of it. It was nothing like the set-up Cas used to have at the manor.</p><p>“Perhaps you should rest,” Cas said, so low Dean almost didn’t hear him.</p><p>Dean wished Cas would say what he really wanted to: that he was hurt, that he didn’t trust Dean anymore, that Dean had hidden things from him for years and now they were paying the consequences. Hell, maybe Cas had already been paying them for over a century. Dean didn’t know. But it sounded plausible, right? Magic and witchcraft. Maybe this was a curse. Maybe a witch had hexed them to live and fail and die again, over and over. Maybe this was all Dean’s fault.</p><p>He tried to tell himself he didn’t do anything. That other Dean had. But it sounded like a hollow and flimsy excuse, now more than ever. Now that he felt that other Dean crawling beneath his skin, filling him out. Now that he’d seen his memories, felt his feelings, thought his thoughts.</p><p>And it was instinctual for Dean to reject that. It felt more important than ever to separate himself from Dean Wesson, but the harder he tried, the harder it became. The lines weren’t just blurred anymore, they were erased.</p><p>“Yeah,” Dean said, throat clicking when he swallowed. He felt more weary than tired, and much too wired to actually sleep restfully. He scratched at the back of his neck. “Yeah, good idea.” Trying to act like everything was normal, he gestured toward the bed. Unsurely, he asked, “You wanna…?”</p><p>Cas looked at him dolefully, and Dean was sure the answer was going to be no. But then Cas nodded. He got up and crawled into bed. Dean tried not to feel too relieved. He turned off the light and followed Cas, getting beneath the covers on his side of the bed. More than anything, Dean wanted to roll into him, to hug him around the waist, to press their bodies together and rest his head on Cas’ shoulder.</p><p>He was happy when Cas let him.</p><p>For a long time, Dean just listened to the steady sound of Cas’ breathing, Cas’ heartbeat. Cas was completely still beneath him, his arm curled around Dean’s back and resting on his hip like he wanted to get as far away from Dean’s shoulder as he could without making it obvious.</p><p>And Dean wondered if he should ask if they were okay. Or if they were going to be able to make it past this.</p><p>He decided against it. It was too soon for anything like that.</p><p>Or maybe it was too late.</p><p>“We’re gonna figure out the rest, you know,” Dean whispered into the moonlit darkness. It wasn’t what he really wanted to say. He wanted to apologize for what they’d already figured out.</p><p>Cas’ chest ballooned, and then dropped when he let out a heavy breath through his nose. “I know, Dean.” He didn’t say if he felt good about that or not.</p><p>Dean pressed his lips to Cas’ chest through his t-shirt. He muttered, “Love you, Mr. Novak.”</p><p>It felt like it took forever for Cas to respond. “I love you, too, Mr. Wesson.”</p><p>Dean heard his breath rattle from him as he closed his eyes.</p><p><em>Mr. Wesson</em>.</p><p>He wished he’d never heard that name.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Chapter 14</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>1867</strong>
</p><p>Late July was sweltering. Despite the humidity weighing down the air and causing the dragging breeze to become sluggish and weary, it never seemed to rain. Dean would have been happy with at least a summer sprinkle, because it might stop the grass from browning and the flowers from drooping. He did his best to keep them vibrant with the use of the hose, constantly sneaking gulps of brackish water from it to quench his own thirst. But the discomfort was bearable. The days were bright, the sky blue and the air sweet, even if the smell of horse manure permeated his apartment.</p><p>In his opinion, the world was rosy now that he got to steal kisses from Cas. Now that he got to see the way Cas would bite down on a smile when the kiss broke, now that he got to dance with Cas and run his lips across his knuckles and rake his hands through his hair. Now that he could grab Cas by the waist and pull him in, and touch his fingertips, and see the way his eyes darkened with want.</p><p>There was still plenty left up to the imagination, though. Dean wasn’t used to the slow pace of such things. He’d never had the luxury—or the compulsion. Everyone was kept at arm’s length, even when he was in their bed, and there was good reason for that. But Cas wasn’t one night’s company. Dean didn’t want him to be. He wanted to stretch this out for as long as he could.</p><p>And that scared him shitless, because sooner or later, Cas would ask him about his past again and, sooner or later, Dean would tell him the truth. He tried to picture a world where that scenario would go well, where Cas would still want him, or even believe him at all. Because the only alternative was dealing with the guilt of lying to him point blank. And, selfishly, Dean was tired of the lying, of the one night stands, of running and hiding. And maybe that would never stop. Not really. But maybe he and Cas could hide together.</p><p>At least for a little while.</p><p>Until, like the summer blooms dying in winter’s frost, Dean would have to let him go.</p><p>So, maybe it was better to keep Cas ignorant. To let him live in the light with his future bride and children and career, and to eventually forget all about Dean. Maybe it was better for Dean to bask in whatever glow he could for the time, and then not rail against it when it was snuffed out. Maybe Dean just couldn’t be that selfish.</p><p>Maybe he could be if it was anyone but Cas.</p><p>That afternoon, the sun was a white orb in a cloudless sky. Dean hadn’t even bothered to put on a jacket that morning. He wore his thinnest shirt and rolled the sleeves up to his elbows. By noontime, his underarms were already muddy and the fabric of his shirt stuck to the small of his back with a wet patch. His suspenders had been digging uncomfortably into his shoulders, and it was too damn hot for that, so he let them swing at his hips. His hands were overheated in his work gloves as he snipped the browning leaves off the hedges.</p><p>The backyard was buzzing with activity. The horses were out of the stables getting brushed, their tails swatting angrily at flies. The dogs slept in the shade of the trees, their tongues lolling. Serving maids cleaned and set the table on the patio in preparation for a garden lunch for Chuck and some colleague in from New York. Zach was nearby them, micromanaging as usual. The housekeepers took down the sheets hanging from the clothes line, and Dean caught sight of Jo among them.</p><p>He pretended not to notice her. She pretended not to notice him. They’d both been keeping an eye on each other for weeks. So far, she hadn’t made any moves. Dean had doubled up on the protection sigils and freshened his poultice in his apartment just in case. He’d cleaned the six-shooter he’d brought when he first arrived in Amherst and went into town to make sure he had plenty of bullets. He even kept a handful of frankincense in his pocket at all times to counter any spells—assuming Jo was a witch. That was really all he could assume.</p><p>The only thing was truly certain was this: it couldn’t go on like this. He was constantly looking over his shoulder. If she knew who he was, chances were, she was on edge, too. The first chance he was able to get her alone, he’d take it. But, whenever he was around, she made damn sure not to be alone.</p><p>Dean glanced away from her, deciding she wouldn’t try anything in broad daylight with so many people around. Instead, he looked over his shoulder, his eyes tracing the line of Cas’ slumped posture. Cas had been sitting on a bench in one of the gardens for a couple hours now, his nose in a book. There was a gold pencil tucked behind his ear; every now and again, he would pluck it out and write something in the margins.</p><p>Dean had been slowly making his way over to that particular garden ever since he spotted Cas. He took his time, paranoia telling him to be subtle and patient. But he couldn’t stop himself from glancing over at times, eyes snagging on Cas’ frown, or the thoughtful line on the bridge of his nose that Dean wanted to smooth out, or the way Cas licked a fingertip before turning the page.</p><p>Sometimes, he felt Cas staring at him, which meant he wanted Dean to come over and he <em>wasn’t</em> being patient. Dean was surprised he hadn’t taken matters into his own hands and approached him instead.</p><p>Deciding the hedges were finished, he shot a careful look to the other members of staff in the area. They all seemed too busy to notice him, and Zach had headed inside. Dean figured it was now or never.</p><p>He pulled off his gloves and shoved them into his back pocket. He wedged the gardening shears under his armpit and paced toward Cas. Around Cas, pink and purple gladioli towered. The fountain bubbled, cascading water winking in the sunlight. Dean wiped the sweat away from his hairline with the back of his wrist, leaving a trail of dirt there instead.</p><p>Being as quiet as possible, he crept up behind Cas and put his hands over Cas’ eyes. Dean grinned. Cas sighed loudly and sat up a little straighter.</p><p>“<em>Dean</em>,” he said, annoyed.</p><p>Dean chuckled. “How’d you know it was me?” He put the shears down and straddled the bench next to Cas.</p><p>Cas turned his face to him, the twinkle in his eyes betraying him. He was dressed in a suit, and it didn’t even look like the temperature was affecting him in the slightest. But the season had painted a golden tan on his skin, giving him a vivacious glow that Dean had never seen on him before. “No one else would take the risk.”</p><p>“You love it,” Dean teased.</p><p>Cas rolled his eyes down at his book to disguise a chuckle. Dean watched his profile, beaming proudly. His gaze flickered down to the open book on Cas’ lap. He’d drawn a treble clef at the top of the page, a few notes in it. Dean still wasn’t the sharpest when it came to sheet music, but he thought maybe the key was in G-major.</p><p>“What are you doing here, anyway? I thought you’d be in <em>your</em> garden.” He made sure to stress the <em>your</em>, because one of these days he was going to slip up and say <em>our</em> like he wanted to.</p><p>“Perhaps I was hoping to catch sight of a handsome groundskeeper,” Cas answered, arching a brow. “I don’t see one though.” He looked pretty damn smug about that one.</p><p>“Hilarious.” Dean nodded his chin down at the book. “What’s that?”</p><p>Cas stuck his pencil into the binding and closed the book, sliding his hand along the front cover. It was a book about Chopin, but Dean didn’t really care about that. He’d been talking about the sheet music Cas had been drawing up. “I’m attempting to draw inspiration.”</p><p>Dean’s brows popped in interest. “For?”</p><p>“Nothing.”</p><p>Puckering his lips, Dean shook his head. “Fine, don’t tell me.” Cas was probably just obsessing about mastering another piece, as if he didn’t know enough by heart already. Attempting to distract him, Dean placed his palms flat on the heated stone bench and leaned in closer to Cas. “But I think I got a better idea for how to spend your time.” He painted on his sliest smile.</p><p>Cas’ eyes widened fractionally, which meant he was tempted. “Dean, not now,” he whispered like someone could overhear them.</p><p>Dean didn’t know what the big deal was. Everyone was busy and the backyard would be cleared out soon for the lunch meeting. Dean and Cas could spend the downtime in Dean’s apartment, and they wouldn’t be missed.</p><p>But he guessed it was better to be safe than sorry.</p><p>“Okay, then tonight?”</p><p>Cas set his book to the opposite side of him. “Only if I get to kiss you again.”</p><p>“That all I’m good for?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>Dean chewed on his bottom lip, holding Cas’ eyes. And he found himself once again walking the fine line between wanting to take things slow and <em>really</em> wanting to have sex with him. That thought only doubled when he noticed the way the fabric of Cas’ jacket stretched and strained against his shoulders. Maybe it was from spending more time outside in the summer, but Dean wasn’t used to seeing Cas filled out and muscular. It was distracting.</p><p>Dean honestly didn’t know if he’d be able to stop himself from having sex with Cas if the opportunity arose. But, for the moment, Dean just wished he could kiss him then and there; it might even be worth the risk.</p><p>Movement flickered in the corner of Dean’s eyes. Zach was coming back outside, shouting something at the people setting the table, his words indecipherable from the distance.</p><p>Dean leaned out of Cas’ space. “So, you’ll meet me tonight?”</p><p>Cas nodded, the corners of his lips pulling upward.</p><p>Satisfied, Dean whipped his gloves out of his pocket and slapped them on the bench to shake loose some dirt. While he stood up and slipped the gloves back on, something tingled at the back of his head, telling him he was being watched—and not just by Cas’ fond eyes. Dean’s gaze snapped back toward the patio, instantly locking with Zach’s. He looked away quickly, pretending he hadn’t noticed. But his shoulders went rigid. Zach was still looking right at him.</p><p>So was Cas, none the wiser.</p><p>Dean told himself it didn’t matter. Zach was probably just pissed off that Dean wasn’t breaking his back working.</p><p>“See you later,” he muttered, bending down to pick up the shears. Cas opened his book again and began reading. While Dean walked toward the garden shed, he did his best not to look around—not at Cas, and especially not at Zach. He tried to remind himself that Cas would never let Zach sack him. He was safe. Still, it was a little easier to breathe inside the shade of the shed.</p><p>Dean placed the shears in the corner and scrubbed at his face. He was just being paranoid again.</p><p>He walked back out into the baking sun, surveying the grounds as he went. He went through his mental checklist and realized he was mostly done for the day. There were some weeds he needed to pull out along the fencing in the cemetery, but Chuck probably wouldn’t take his guest there to pay respects, so Dean could put that off until later. He might actually be able to catch up on some sleep that afternoon, which would be nice.</p><p>Maybe he’d go to Cas’ garden for that. Maybe Cas would join him, after all.</p><p>He was so lost in thought imaging it, he almost missed someone calling to him from the shade of the house. “Hey, Hoss!”</p><p>Dean looked over, a grin coming to his features. Benny was leaning against the wall, a cigarillo pinched between his fingers. Dean, just like everyone else, had been banned from the kitchen for most of the morning, so he’d barely seen Benny all day apart from a quick nod hello at breakfast.</p><p>“Hey,” Dean said, strolling toward him. “What are you doing out here? Thought you were busy cookin’.”</p><p>Benny puffed his cigarillo. “Ham’s in the oven. Doesn’t need much help from me anymore.”</p><p>Dean's mouth watered at the thought of ham for lunch. Must be nice.</p><p>Benny gestured the fragrant smoke toward the grounds. “Couldn’t help but notice you and Castiel over there.”</p><p>Instantly, Dean’s stomach dropped. He glanced over his shoulder, where Cas was still scribbling away in the margins of his book. Dean’s eyes strayed toward the patio. The servers were just about finished setting up. Zach was circling them like a hawk.</p><p>“Shit, you did?” Dean said, lowering his voice.</p><p>“Pretty sure I was the only one,” Benny assured him smoothly, and Dean was grateful. He turned back to his friend, who lifted one brow like he expected some kind of explanation. Dean looked at him quizzically. Benny took another drag. “’Course, I looked away pretty quick. Seemed like you two needed some privacy.” His grin was sharp and mischievous. “Anything you wanna share?”</p><p>Dean felt his cheeks burning. He dipped his head and toed at the grass. He considered lying, but he trusted Benny. After all, Benny had helped him and Cas in the first place. If it wasn’t for him moving things along, they might still have their heads up their asses.</p><p>“Well, uh—turns out you were right,” Dean told him, “about Cas not… wanting to dance with women.”</p><p>Benny understood that for what it was. Seeming unsurprised by the confirmation, he hummed deeply. “Right. So, you decided to do some dancing of your own?”</p><p>Dean scoffed. “Not exactly,” he hedged. “But yeah. Kinda.”</p><p>“Well, that’s good.” Benny’s voice was easy, slow and dulcet. It made Dean feel like this situation was halfway normal. But then he added, “You tell Jo yet?”</p><p>Dean tried not to clamp down on his jaw. He looked over to where the maids were taking down the laundry. Jo had just folded the final garment into her wicker basket. She hefted it up and headed for the backdoor with the other maids. Dean was vaguely aware of Zach clapping obnoxiously and yelling to hurry everyone along since their guest was due to arrive in five minutes.</p><p>“Not yet,” Dean said, doing his damnedest not to let any emotion into his voice.</p><p>“You should.” Benny dropped his cigarillo and stamped it out with his boot, and Dean knew he should be annoyed by that because he’d be the one to clean it up. But he was too busy thinking about Jo again. And, besides, it was <em>Benny</em>. Dean messed up the kitchen enough times; this probably just made them even.</p><p>It took him a second to realize Benny was still talking: “She’ll be thrilled. Was really pulling for you two, you know?”</p><p>Not for the first time, Dean wondered why. Why had she helped them? He guessed she could use the situation to her advantage. If she actually was a witch, she could be trying to get rid of him by exposing him and Cas. But why go through the trouble? And why pull Cas into it? Why not just hex Dean and get it over with?</p><p>He’d also considered the possibility of Jo hexing Cas to be attracted to Dean. He tried not to think about that too hard, even if it probably made sense. But love charms never lasted long, and they were more trouble than they were worth. There were easier ways to make Dean miserable when it all came crashing down.</p><p>“Yeah,” Dean answered.</p><p>Zach’s voice boomed across the grass. “Okay, everyone! Inside!”</p><p>Benny sighed, picking himself off the wall. “Break time’s over, I guess. Catch you later, Dean.” He walked away.</p><p>“Later,” Dean said, doing his best to shake away all thoughts of Jo. It was no use. He had to settle this.</p><p>Everyone headed for the backdoor of the manor. Dean considered following them and going after Jo, but he needed to be prepared first. He’d have the element of surprise, sure, but he needed to be armed if things went bad. The gun would be more for insurance than anything else. Shooting a woman in broad daylight inside a house probably wasn’t the best idea if he planned on sticking around—but if push came to shove…</p><p>Better her dead than him.</p><p>He was just about to head for his apartment when he heard Zach call, “Uh, Mr. Wesson? A word?” He was holding one stubby finger up to catch Dean’s attention.</p><p>Dean inwardly groaned, wondering what he’d done wrong that time. He was probably about to get scolded for talking to Cas when he should have been working. He paced toward Zach, throwing a glance in Cas’ direction as he did. Cas was standing up from the bench, pulling at the ends of his jacket to straighten it out. He leaned over and picked up his book before starting for the manor.</p><p>“Yeah?” Dean asked when he reached Zach.</p><p>“Dean,” Zach said, taking on the tone of a reproving mother who just wanted the best for her child. “How many times do we have to have this conversation? Leave the Novaks alone. Castiel is very busy.”</p><p>Dean almost laughed. His eyes flickered toward Cas again. “Cas isn’t busy,” he said, humored.</p><p>Zach’s expression darkened. “Well, <em>you</em> should be,” he said. “Honestly. Every time I see you, you’re gallivanting with Castiel instead of doing your job. He has the luxury of doing whatever he pleases all day. You don’t. I don’t pay you to waste time, understood?”</p><p>Dean bit his tongue, not pointing out that his work was done for the day anyway. Not pointing out that he wasn’t afraid of Zach. Dean had put up with people a lot tougher than him, people who actually commanded authority and respect. Like his superiors in the war. Like his father.</p><p>But Dean didn’t want to give him a reason to actually get him fired. It was best to suck it up, agree, and then keep doing whatever he wanted.</p><p>“Understood, sir,” he forced out. It made his mouth taste like glass.</p><p>Zach narrowed his eyes. He stepped in a little closer, dropping his voice. “I have my eye on you, Mr. Wesson.”</p><p>Dean bristled.</p><p>Zach stepped back. “Well? Why are you still here? I suggest making yourself scarce before our guest arrives.”</p><p>Dean’s mind supplied him with a few choice words, but he pushed a grin and hummed. He turned around, stocking in the direction of the carriage house. Cas passed by him in the opposite direction, brow scrunched, silently asking what all that was about.</p><p>Dean shot his brows up in exasperation and left it at that. Zach didn’t want him to talk to Cas? Fine. Dean didn’t plan on too much <em>talking</em> when they met up that night, anyway.</p><p>He kept walking, looking over his shoulder at Cas. He let his eyes trail along Cas’ thick thighs, then upward to take in the rolling muscles of his back, the way he was really filling out his suit jacket. Then, his eyes caught Zach—unmoving, watching Dean just like he promised he would.</p><p>Dean faced forward and straightened out his spine to show he wasn’t threatened. Still, he could feel Zach’s gaze. He didn’t admit to himself that it made his skin crawl.</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p> </p><p>With his six-shooter hidden in the back of his waistband, Dean snuck back into the house. It was quiet but for the muffled piano music coming from the east wing’s hall. The notes reverberated into the entrance foyer. It was only a few notes, stopping and starting and repeating every now and again in varying metronomes and keys. Cas must have been trying out a new song, but it wasn’t one Dean was familiar with.</p><p>He really wished he could linger inside the music room and watch Cas try to figure it out, but he had other things to do. Like find Jo and get the truth out of her. And, if he had to take care of her, so be it. He didn’t survive the life he’d had to get killed above a carriage house. And, more than that, he couldn’t let Cas get hurt.</p><p>Dean realized that was a possibility now, someone using Cas to get to him.</p><p>If anything ever happened to him, Dean wasn’t sure he’d be able to live with himself.</p><p>He started with the first floor, peeking inside every room. Jo wasn’t there. He ran into a few maids dusting the portraits on his way, and he just gave them tight smiles, not stopping to chat. When he still couldn’t find her, he went to the stairs leading down to the staff quarters. A few people were down there catching up on sleep. He kept to the top steps, crouching down to avoid being seen as he scanned the bunks. There were a few other rooms down there that offered some privacy, but, upon first glance, Jo wasn’t there.</p><p>He went up to the second floor, keeping his muscles coiled and ready, keeping his footsteps light. At times, dirt crumbled off the soles of his boots and left speckled filth in his wake. He ignored it for now, hoping Jo wouldn’t find it and use it to follow him.</p><p>He was just about to give up when he turned a corner and saw Jo headed into one of the rooms. Her arms were laden with fresh bed linens. Dean’s fingers itched toward his gun, but he didn’t take it out. She stopped, obviously knowing she was being watched.</p><p>Slowly, Jo turned her face to Dean. Her expression became hard, but she didn’t run. She disappeared through the spare bedroom’s door. It almost felt like an invitation.</p><p>Dean steeled himself and went after her.</p><p>When he reached the room, Jo was standing on the far side of the bed, waiting for him.</p><p>He closed the door behind him, not breaking eye contact. She didn’t back down from the challenge. Slowly, she placed the folded sheets onto the bed and crossed her arms over her chest. Dean paced a little further into the room, keeping the bed between them, just in case in case she made any sudden movements that he needed to see coming.</p><p>“Guess it’s time we had a talk,” he gritted out.</p><p>Jo lifted her chin. “Yeah, guess so.”</p><p>Dean pursed his lips, nodding his head to the side. He gestured out his hand. “Well, ladies first. I’m all ears.”</p><p>Arms tightening over her chest, Jo breathed out an angry breath. She glanced over at the door, but only briefly. And then, “Yeah, okay. Sure.” She met his eyes again, a flaming heat in them. “You know how I told you my dad died?”</p><p>Dean only raised his brows in a small motion to show he remembered.</p><p>Jo nodded, jutting out her jaw. “He was a Man of Letters.”</p><p>Dean blinked. Out of everything, he didn’t expect to hear that. “He wha—”</p><p>“He was there that night,” Jo said, steamrolling over his reaction. “The night your father…”</p><p>Dean’s eyes searched the floor, taking in the new information. He tried to remember the name Harvelle, but nothing came to mind. He was just a kid when it all went down. Bringing his eyes back up, he said knowingly, “He died that night.”</p><p>Jo nodded, regarding Dean like it was his fault. “Few weeks later, my mom found out she was pregnant with me. I never even knew him.”</p><p>He couldn’t believe this. He turned away, scrubbing at his face. He knew they’d ruined lives, driven families apart—but he’d never actually met any of them. Dropping his arms but not looking back around, he asked, “She told you what happened?”</p><p>“She doesn’t <em>know</em> what happened,” Jo spat. “No one does. Just what your father told them—since he was the only one to make it out alive that night.”</p><p>Dean steeled his jaw. His temples were throbbing; pressure was building behind his eyes and he did all he could to blink it away. “No, he wasn’t,” he said. His voice sounded rough.</p><p>His eyes fell closed. He saw a room—a large, marble hall, now scuffed and scorched with black, a shell of a once beautiful estate charred around him. His home. Rubble. Fresh blood pooling into the crevices of the floor, trickling sickly through the cracks. Sightless eyes wide open in horror. More bodies than Dean knew how to count. Screams were still ringing in his ears.</p><p>He opened his eyes, controlled himself, and turned around to face her.</p><p>“I was there. Me and my brother.”</p><p>Jo’s mouth fell open. Color drained from her face. “You were?” She shook her head, giving out a few unsure sounds. “What… Do you remember what happened?”</p><p>Dean scoffed wetly. How could he forget?</p><p>“Yeah,” he said, swiping at his nose. He didn’t want to talk about it. He didn’t talk about it to anyone, not even to Sam. Sam had just been a baby at the time, way too young to remember, and Dean was grateful for small mercies.</p><p>He didn’t want to talk about it. But Jo had a right to know.</p><p>He clasped and unclasped his fists, trying to find the words to speak. “Okay,” he said, rallying himself. He moved closer to the bed and sat down on the edge, angling himself to look across at her. She remained standing, waiting.</p><p>“So, you know, Men of Letters—old society, started back in the days of Salem to keep the witches in line.”</p><p>Jo nodded. “Yeah. Your family were the founders.”</p><p>Dean nodded once. Looked like Jo’s mother taught her the history. That was good. He could skip to the end.</p><p>“Yeah, well, there were some witches who didn’t think magic should be controlled. They all answered this witch named Abaddon. And one night, a few—” He swallowed down the bile rising up his throat. He remembered the heat, the flames, his father shoving Sam’s swaddled form into his arms and telling him to run. He kept going: “A few of ‘em got into my family’s estate under Abaddon’s orders. Burned it down, killed my mom along with it.”</p><p>He guessed Jo already knew that part, too. She didn’t seem surprised. “To send a message to the other Men of Letters, right?”</p><p>Dean gave a motion that was halfway to a nod and halfway to a shake of his head. “No better way than attacking the head guy’s family.”</p><p>He blinked down at his lap. “Anyway, after that, my dad, he… He just wanted my mom back. Turned over every stone, went through every spell book, called in all the high witches and council members from all over the country.” Briefly, he nodded to Jo. “Guessing your dad was one of them?”</p><p>She didn’t confirm or deny it, but it was the only reason he would have been there that night.</p><p>“Eventually, they found a spell, but it required a sacrifice. Blood.” Blood. So much blood. The phantom scent of iron tickled at his nose. “’Course my dad wouldn’t let anyone else do it. But somebody—I dunno if it was one of us or a witch—but they had this theory that the spell would still work if they got my father to the brink of death. And, when he came to, my mom would be alive again, we’d be a family again. And then everybody could focus on finding the witches who did this. So, everyone goes back to the place where Mom died—back to the house—to perform the ritual.”</p><p>Jo was quiet for a second, absorbing it all. Then, she asked, “So, what went wrong?”</p><p>“Turns out one of the witches was a double-agent.” He grimaced down at his lap, remembering the chanting. Remembering the hatred and fear that infested him for so many years. “She made sure the magic went bad. Instead of bringing back my mother, it backfired. Killed everyone in the room, herself included.”</p><p>Jo nodded, face still pale, expression dark. Dean probably looked exactly the same. “Everyone but you and your family,” she said, but there was no heat behind it anymore.</p><p>Dean couldn’t help but laugh. Sometimes, he wondered if they’d all be better off if they had died that night. “Yeah, well, she probably thought my dad was already dead.” Screaming. So much screaming. His father on the ground, smack dab in the middle of a sigil painted onto the floor, blood pouring from a hundred different slashes that appeared from thin air. And that was while the spell was working.</p><p>He shook the memory away. “And me and Sammy… we were hiding. Probably outside of the blast zone, I dunno.” He remembered huddling inside a cupboard, able to see through the burned slats of wood in the siding. Sam was in his arms, and Dean thought they’d die that night. He’d cradled Sam close, hoping to protect him like a shield—so that, if anyone lived, it’d be Sam.</p><p>“After that,” Dean sighed, shrugging out his palms in an aborted motion. They slapped back down to his thighs. “When Dad recovered, he knew he didn’t have a chance in hell of bringing Mom back. He wanted revenge. Tried to get the Men of Letter back together without the council, <em>and</em> without their funding—rebuild or whatever. But people were too scared of Abaddon. They went into hiding. So Dad… packed us up. We left Kansas. And we hunted down every last damn witch that answered to Abaddon. And we killed them.”</p><p>He felt his body go rigid, his eyes go dead, sightless. He’d spent a lot of years that way, just trying to bury it all.</p><p>“And then we found Abaddon…”</p><p>Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jo toss back her hair. She sniffled a little, like she’d been trying not to cry. “Yeah, I heard,” she whispered. “People… people say you’re the one who pulled the trigger.”</p><p>Dean wanted to laugh again, but he didn’t know how. It took a lot more effort than just pulling a trigger, but, “Yeah. Almost killed all three of us—me, my dad, my brother… But, yeah.”</p><p>Jo was quiet for a long time. She sat down on the other side of the bed.</p><p>Dean stared off at the wall. He felt numb. “When it was over, I dunno… Thought things could be normal for us. But my dad—It’s like… Like he didn’t wanna live anymore. Not without my mom. Honestly, when the war happened and he didn’t come home…” He was saying too much. She didn’t need to know this part. But, damn, it felt good to finally say. He’d never even said it out loud to Sam, even though they both knew it. “Well, let’s just say I wasn’t surprised.”</p><p>He just hoped, in those last moments, his father was at peace. That he wasn’t in pain. Because that’s what he left in his wake: pain. Dean wondered if he’d ever forgive him for that. He hoped Sam could.</p><p>He swiveled around to look at Jo again. She shifted, looking back.</p><p>“Jo, I’m sorry,” he said, voice raw. “If my dad…” He scoffed sardonically. “If he hadn’t tried so hard to…” There were no words. Except maybe this: “What’s dead should stay dead. If I’ve learned anything, it’s that.”</p><p>Jo’s face pinched in sympathy, and maybe even pity. “He loved her.”</p><p>Dean wanted to yell, to rage. He loved his mom, too, but it was no excuse. John had two sons. What about them? Didn’t he love them?</p><p>All he could say was, “Yeah, still.”</p><p>Jo nodded down at the mattress, seeming to accept it.</p><p>“So, you knew?” he asked, even though it was obvious. “All this time, you knew who I was?”</p><p>Another nod. At least she looked a little guilty that time.</p><p>“Why the hell didn’t you tell me?”</p><p>Her face cracked into a humorless smile. “Honestly? I didn’t know if I could trust you.”</p><p>And he guessed that was fair. He tried to smile back. His stomach roiled. “Yeah? What’s the verdict?” He realized he was nervous. He wouldn’t blame her if she never wanted to talk to him again—but he didn’t want that.</p><p>Her smile turned a little softer, a little more genuine. “Yeah, I guess you’re alright.”</p><p>He breathed out, more relieved than he thought he’d be.</p><p>They fell quiet for a little while longer, and he guessed there was nothing else to say. Slowly, he got up, crossed to the door. When his hand was on the knob, she called in an urgent, small voice, “Dean?”</p><p>He paused and looked around, wondering if she’d changed her mind.</p><p>Jo only said, “Thanks. For killing the bitch.”</p><p>Dean wished he could be prouder of that accomplishment. He nodded once, and left the room.</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p> </p><p>Cas was giving off deep, rumbling noises that went right to Dean’s dick. It was getting tougher and tougher for Dean to ignore his impulses—especially since they were in a bed. A big, fancy bed, way plusher and more comfortable than the one in Dean’s apartment. The pillows were fluffed and the blanket, which had slipped down to the small of Dean’s back, was a warm weight. The temptation was practically killing him.</p><p>But his conversation was Jo was still turning over in his head, and all it did was remind him that Cas was more than a warm body. Dean really didn’t want their first time to be a distraction.</p><p>He kissed his way to the bolt of Cas’ jaw, the day-old scruff on Cas’ face prickling at his lips and tongue. It felt awesome. Next to Dean’s ear, Cas was sucking in choppy breaths. He dragged his open palms down Dean’s spine and fisted at his shirt. His hips shifted beneath Dean, and Dean didn’t know if it was unconscious or not, but it lined their bodies up perfectly. Dean blacked out for a second at the feeling of Cas’ erection against his.</p><p>He pulled back fractionally to lock gazes with Cas, and for a second, everything stopped. Cas’ eyes were clear and dark blue, swollen lips parted. He almost looked like he wanted to ask a question but didn’t have the right words. But he didn’t need to say anything. Dean’s heart was thumping against his chest.</p><p>And it felt like, between the two of them, something was decided without words. Some unspoken agreement that this was fucking terrifying, and it would end one day, and that was all the more reason to do this now.</p><p>Dean slotted their mouths together again, kissing him deeper and more urgently. Cas gave it right back. His hands tightened around Dean like someone was trying to rip him away, then he pulled at the tails of Dean’s shirt, taking them out of his pants. Dean ripped at the first few buttons until it was enough to pull off over his head. Cas helped him out of the garment, eyes wide and drinking it all in while it was tossed away. They locked lips again, the breaths between them as hot and sticky as the summer air. Dean worked on the buttons of Cas’ shirt until he could part the fabric and sink his fingertips into the divots of Cas’ ribs. Cas was feeling up Dean’s back.</p><p>Their bodies moved against each other, stomachs rubbing together, and there was something about it that made Dean lightheaded. Having his belly pressed against someone else’s had always felt intimate, but not like this.</p><p>Dean tore himself away and buried his face into Cas’ neck. He focuses on the sensation of their bodies knocking together. He sped up his thrusts, and Cas gripped the back of his hair with an “<em>ahh.</em>”</p><p>“Cas,” Dean eked into his shoulder, just before Cas turned his head to fish for Dean’s lips again. Dean kissed him desperately. He moved his hands down Cas’ sides to get his pants off so they could do this the right way—</p><p>And then there was a knock at the door.</p><p>Before Dean could even process what was happening, Cas had pushed him off. It was like someone just poured a bucket of ice down the front of Dean’s pants. They stared at each other, neither of them daring to blink or even breathe. Cas’ irises were still a ring of blue around his pupils, and his cheeks were flushed. Dean could only imagine how wrecked he looked himself.</p><p>From the door, a small voice called, “Castiel? You asleep?”</p><p>Dean knew that voice. He clamped down on his jaw, body tensing like he was about to go into a fight. They were so fucked…</p><p>“My father,” Cas hissed, sotto voce, like Dean wasn’t already painfully aware.</p><p>“What the fuck?” Dean mouthed.</p><p>Cas pinched his mouth in annoyance. He called to the door. “No, I… One moment!”</p><p>Dean had no idea what the hell Cas was planning on, because Dean’s only method of escape was to jump off the balcony.</p><p>Cas furiously began buttoning up his shirt. He was sitting bolt upright under the blankets. “Get under the bed.”</p><p>Dean shook his head, dumbfounded. For some reason the words weren’t processing. “Huh?”</p><p>“Get under the bed!” Cas said again. He found Dean’s shirt among the covers and slammed it against Dean’s chest. He looked at Dean like he didn’t understand what Dean was still doing there. “Go!”</p><p>Dean sprang into action. He bundled his shirt against his torso and scrambled out of bed, his ankle getting twisted in the sheets. Behind him, he heard Cas huff, and he could practically feel the air shift in an eye roll.</p><p>Cas picked up a book on his nightstand and opened it up on his lap, which was a nice touch. Dean didn’t risk it to tell him so. He dropped to the floor and crawled under the bed. It was a tight squeeze. The wooden slats were right up against the back of his head, and his breath sounded too loud in the small space.</p><p>Above him, Cas shifted, and the mattress dipped against Dean’s ass.</p><p>“Come in,” Cas called calmly. This was a terrible idea.</p><p>A second later, the door creaked open. Two slippered feet shuffled inside. The ends of a cotton robe whispered across the floor as Chuck walked closer to the end of the bed.</p><p>“Father,” Cas said like he hadn’t known it was him. “This is a surprise.”</p><p>“Yeah, well,” Chuck said, audibly flapping his arms against his sides, “I’m leaving for Trenton pretty early in the morning. Wanted to catch you before I left.”</p><p>It was at that moment that Dean realized his boots were on the floor at the end of the bed. They were caked in dirt, one standing upright and the other on its side, laces snaking around it haphazardly. Tentatively, Dean stretched his arm out to pull them out of sight, hoping they weren’t too far away from the edge of the bed.</p><p>“Why?” he half-heard Cas ask.</p><p>He noticed Chuck was standing on one of the laces. If Dean tried to move it, Chuck would feel it. He fisted his hand and drew it back slowly, heart in his throat. <em>Fuck</em>.</p><p>“Well,” Chuck said again, his voice going a little higher in pitch. “I’ve been thinking.” It sounded like it was going to be bad news. Dean knew Cas had been avoiding his father since their argument last month. Maybe Chuck was back to force him into listening.</p><p>Chuck shifted to sit on the corner of the bed. The mattress dipped; the slats creaked. Dean shot his hand out and pulled his boots under. It felt like a victory.</p><p>“I think maybe… Maybe I’ve been a little too hard on you recently. Maybe we should step back a little from trying to find you a wife.”</p><p>Dean jolted back in surprise, his head hitting against the wood. He opened his mouth in a silent yell to combat the sharp pain. Luckily, Chuck didn’t seem to hear the sound. The pain subsided into a dull thud.</p><p>“You… what?” Cas asked.</p><p>“Yeah,” Chuck said in a way that suggested it had been accompanied by a shrug. “I’ve been thinking that maybe you’re right—about taking on some responsibly at the firm. Just some basic work at first. I wanna ease you into it. But it might be good for you to—you know, occupy your time now that you’re out of school.”</p><p>Dean could imagine the look on Cas’ face. He’d be gaping, the picture of shock. Dean’s eyes were wide, too. Something felt off about the whole situation, like he couldn’t trust it. But maybe he was wrong. Maybe that was just his suspicious nature rearing its head. Despite himself, hope bloomed inside of him.</p><p>Maybe things between him and Cas didn’t have to end, after all.</p><p>From above, Cas gave a few guttural, uncertain sounds.</p><p>Chuck kept talking: “Don’t get me wrong, we’ll still try to find you somebody eventually. But, in the meantime, you can have this to focus on! Might help you gain some confidence. I just want you to understand that you have a lot to offer to a woman. And, hey, to society, too.”</p><p>Dean wanted to laugh, because <em>confidence</em> definitely wasn’t the reason Cas didn’t have a wife.</p><p>“Plus, it’ll give you something to do besides sit around the house all day,” Chuck added flippantly. “Maybe help you meet some new people, too. Or spend time with people you already know! People who aren’t the staff—Not that there’s anything wrong with them!” He quickly amended. <em>Very</em> quickly. Dean scrunched his face in offense. “Friendliness makes for a well-run house. But you need people who’ll challenge you.”</p><p>Slowly, Cas said, “I… certainly feel challenged at times.” Dean rolled his eyes.</p><p>“That’s good. And Balthazar and Gabriel are great and all—” Dean had to clamp his hand over his mouth to stop himself from snorting. “But you can’t expect to spend all your time with them. Or, uh… <em>Other</em> people.”</p><p>That sounded specific. Dean’s body went on red alert.</p><p>“Other people?” Cas echoed flatly.</p><p>“Yeah. Uh…” Chuck shifted on the bed. When he spoke again, his voice was awkward and squeaky, and Dean could hardly believe he and Cas were even related. “Zachariah tells me you’ve been spending a lot of time with our groundskeeper.”</p><p>A chill touched Dean's spine. His fists went tight.</p><p>“I’ve seen you two around myself. And, like I said, that’s great! Friendliness is great!” That sounded way too disingenuous. Dean skewed his eyes shut. <em>Fuck</em>. Zach knew. And now Chuck knew. His heart was slamming so hard, he had to strain to hear the next part. “And you two seem… friendly.”</p><p>“Father—”</p><p>“But you know how staff members like to talk,” Chuck cut him off. “And… one thing leads to another, the wrong person overhears something… Rumors get started. And we don’t want any rumors, right?”</p><p>There was a pause, and Dean could only assume that Cas was agreeing with a nod of his head. Cas was probably more afraid than Dean was. Dean wished there was some way to assure him that they were alright. They’d be more careful.</p><p>Shit, he really hoped this wouldn’t change Cas’ mind about them.</p><p>“Because that’s all they’d be…” Chuck added dubiously, “right?”</p><p>Dean relaxed marginally. Chuck didn’t know anything.</p><p>“Of—Of course,” Cas told him.</p><p>He heard Chuck let out a giant breath. “Great,” he said. “And, you know, not that I wouldn’t understand. You know me. I don’t give a rat’s ass about some of the stuff other people care about! You’ll hear everyone say things like—<em>oh,</em> <em>it’s unnatural</em>! But it is. It <em>is</em> natural. It’s basic evolution. Animals have certain… erg, <em>urges</em>.”</p><p>Dean widened his eyes, and he didn’t know if he wanted to laugh or start screaming. This felt way too much like a <em>birds and bees</em> chat.</p><p>Chuck kept going, words tumbling out of his mouth like they were tripping over each other: “I mean, you should have seen<em> me</em> when I was your age! There were some boys in my graduating class that—”</p><p>Dean’s jaw dropped.</p><p>“But anyway!” Chuck interrupted himself, obviously knowing he was going too far. “My point is… There’s a reason people don’t give into those urges. We know better. We know what’s better for us and—for everyone! It’s how we all come together to form a decent society. Name of the game is being in control. You hear what I’m saying?”</p><p>A long few seconds ticked by. Cas was probably as stiff as a board. Finally, he said, “Yes, Father. I… understand.”</p><p>“Good,” Chuck said. He shifted again, and Dean heard a soft noise as he patted the bed. “I’m glad we’re on the same page.”</p><p>Chuck stood up and audibly blew out his cheeks. “Well, that’s it, I guess.” He started walking backward toward the door. Dean had never been more relieved something was over. “I’ll pick out a few new manuscripts for you to <em>peruse</em> while I’m away.” He did a little flowy arm movement when he said <em>peruse</em>, and Dean thought he was the lamest person who ever lived. “And I’ll see you when I get back in a couple weeks.”</p><p>Cas sounded a little brighter when he said, “Yes. Thank you. Have a good trip.”</p><p>“Thanks,” Chuck said, hand on the doorknob. “Uh, open or closed?”</p><p>“Closed,” Cas said.</p><p>Inwardly, Dean screamed, <em>Closed!</em></p><p>“’Night, son,” Chuck said, then he stepped out of the room and closed the door behind him. Dean didn’t flinch until he heard his footsteps fade away.</p><p>As soon as he was in the clear, he shimmied out from under the bed and jumped to his feet. Cas was still staring at the door, expression totally blank. Dean could have probably snapped in front of his face and gotten no reaction whatsoever.</p><p>He held out his arms. “What the fuck just happened?”</p><p>Incrementally, Cas’ features moved. He lifted his brows, and a hint of a smile graced his lips. He shook his head, scoffing out a breath that meant, <em>I have no idea</em>.</p><p>“No, seriously. What just happened?”</p><p>Cas turned his head toward Dean and tilted it to the side. “I… think I’ve been saved from taking a wife.”</p><p>Dean was still processing. He rattled his head, blinking rapidly. Tentatively, he thought about all the possibilities that could come of this. Cas could keep holding off on getting married. He could take more of a role in the company, maybe move up and get money of his own. He could get his own house—maybe in Boston. Dean could go with him.</p><p>But there was a part of his brain that rejected it. It felt too easy. And then there was the question of <em>why now?</em></p><p>But Cas exhaled again, a gummy grin forming on his face, and Dean couldn’t help but smile, too.</p><p>“This is a good thing, right?” he asked, just to make sure.</p><p>“Yeah,” Cas laughed. He licked his lips. “I think so.” When his eyes locked with Dean, they were full of optimism. It tampered down all the doubts in Dean’s mind.</p><p>Dean gave a whooping sound and jumped back into the bed. He grabbed Cas’ face and planted a kiss on him. Cas chuckled against his mouth, bubbly and light. Dean felt as if he could get champagne drunk off of it.</p><p>And then Cas pulled away like he’d just realized something. Fear shot like an ice pick through Dean’s heart, until Cas said, “Did… my father just tell me he’s attracted to men?”</p><p>Dean had completely forgotten about that. He blinked, eyes moving in consideration.</p><p>“Jesus Christ,” he laughed when the realization hit. He wished he never knew that information.</p><p>Cas looked like he felt the same way. Morbidly, he laughed again and tipped his forehead against Dean’s chest.</p><p>Dean hummed happily and touched his palm to the back of Cas’ head.</p><p>He didn’t know he could ever feel this weightless. It was stupid. Every instinct told him it was stupid—but Dean let his eyes slip closed and held Cas. He let his guard down.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>i think this is where we can all take a collective breath and say "oh no," right?</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. Chapter 15</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>2020</strong>
</p><p>It turned out that a ride on an airplane took a significant amount of effort. Castiel, Dean, and Sam left for the airport in Boston on Wednesday after Sam’s midterm was over. Dean seemed stressed over the idea of leaving the Impala in the “long term parking garage,” and it took them nearly a half hour for Dean to drive through the entire structure looking for a space that would ensure the car’s safety. None such thing existed, as the garage was practically full, and Sam eventually argued that they needed to hurry up or else they would miss their flight.</p><p>The inside of the airport was packed to the brim with people weaving through the crowd in every direction, or waiting on line, or sitting on their luggage along the wall with dejected expressions. Men and women in tactical gear and fatigues, some with German Shepherds obediently at their sides, surveyed the area with rifles in hand. No one seemed to look at them twice, which was unsettling.</p><p>It took them another forty minutes to get their tickets, and over an hour to get through the security check that Castiel found invasive and highly inappropriate. In total, his ID had been checked three times. Each time, he tried to remember that there was no cause for alarm now that he had a real ID card, gotten after his marriage.</p><p>To top it all off, Dean had been fidgeting throughout the entire experience. He white knuckled the steering wheel all the way there, bounced on the balls of his feet when they encountered another line, and spoke curt sentences through his teeth. He was pale and sweating, and Castiel tried to keep his mouth shut because, every time he asked Dean if he was alright, Dean snapped at him.</p><p>“He’s scared of flying,” Sam told Castiel while they’d been waiting at their gate for an hour and Dean had excused himself to use the bathroom. The entire area smelled like pretzels from the nearby food kiosk. “He’s probably puking his brains out right now.” It was a strange thought. Castiel had never seen Dean so openly afraid; in the past, his fear had shown itself in either hostility or humor. He endeavored to be more patient with Dean until they landed in Kansas.</p><p>It was night by the time they finally took off, and the pilot promised them a smooth flight. Castiel sat by the window and watched the city lights become further and further away until they couldn’t be seen at all. The milky clouds rushed beneath the plane. It made up for the stale, suffocating scent of the recycled air and for the hassle of the airport.</p><p>Jack had been right. Flying was an incredible experience.</p><p>Two hours later, they landed in Virginia to catch a connecting flight. In another four hours, they touched down in Kansas City. Dean, who had been as jumpy as a cat the entire journey, muttered something about “driving home next Thanksgiving” and “never doing that again.” To that, Sam pulled off his headphones and responded, “Did you say something?”</p><p>Dean appeared calmer once they were inside the airport, and even Castiel had to admit, the trip had been draining. But it wasn’t over yet.</p><p>“You heard from Mom?” Dean asked Sam while they moved along with the crowd of people through the airport, following the signs for <em>baggage claim</em>. They’d carried their luggage on, since Dean refused to “pay a zillion dollars to check a bag,” but apparently the exit and the baggage claim were the same thing.</p><p>Castiel regretted offering to carry the duffel he and Dean had packed in as he rushed to keep up with how quickly the Winchesters were walking. The strap dug into his shoulder, likely leaving a bruise, and he was so distracted by it that hardly got a chance to take in his surroundings. The Kansas City airport was smaller than the one in Boston, but they looked relatively similar.</p><p>“Uh, yeah, she texted us not too long ago,” Sam said, looking down at his phone. “She should be at baggage claim by now.”</p><p>Dean tossed a grin over his shoulder at Castiel. It didn’t quite meet his eyes. “You ready to meet your mother-in-law?”</p><p>Castiel tightened his fist around the strap of the duffle and attempted to smile, too. He nodded, doing his best not to let on the clenching in his gut, likely because Dean was nervous, too. Castiel knew how much this meant to Dean. He hoped Mary would like him.</p><p>He must have done a poor job at disguising his anxiety, because Dean reached back and grabbed Castiel’s hand. He said, “Don’t worry. She’ll love you.” It sounded like a platitude. Regardless, Castiel gave his husband’s hand a squeeze.</p><p><em>His husband</em>. It felt like a dream.</p><p>Dean kept his hand in Castiel’s, tugging him along the brightly lit hallways, until they reached the escalator down to the churning machines haphazardly spitting out luggage. Hordes of people stood around them, standing on their toes and watching the conveyor belts like lions ready to pounce on an unsuspecting prey.</p><p>If Castiel learned anything from this experience, it was that air travel mostly consisted of a lot of rushing just to wait around.</p><p>Sam had his phone held to his face, one finger plugging his ear so he could hear his mother over the throng. He guided them along the back wall. Castiel stuck close to Dean, something clawing up his throat, and he wasn’t certain meeting Mary Winchester had much to do with it. There were so many people crammed into the space, so much noise from the machinery. Castiel didn’t think he’d ever seen so much concentrated chaos.</p><p>There were days—years—when he’d wish he could leave the manor, step outside and stand among a crowd. Now, he found himself wishing for the opposite.</p><p>“Oh—found you!” Sam called, stretching himself even taller and holding up his hand. To the left of the automatic doors, a blonde woman stood on her toes and waved back. Sam ended the call.</p><p>“Hey, Mom!” Sam said when they approached. He enveloped her in an embrace. Mary drew back slightly, beaming up at him as she touched his face, eyes sparkling. She and Dean had the same smile.</p><p>One hand still on Sam, she turned to Dean and lifted an arm to welcome him in. “Dean.”</p><p>“Hey, Mom,” Dean said, ducking into her for a hug.</p><p>Mary gave an exaggerated guttural sound as she squeezed them tighter. “I missed you two! Being an empty nester sucks!”</p><p>“Yeah, yeah. Like you haven’t been waiting to have the house to yourself,” Dean teased as the hug broke.</p><p>Castiel stood to the side, not knowing if he should introduce himself. He was never very good at first impressions.</p><p>“You got me,” Mary played along. Her eyes swept toward Castiel, and some fight or flight response jolted his insides despite the warmth of her gaze. “And you must be Castiel.”</p><p>Castiel put on a smile. “Yes.”</p><p>Mary gestured toward him, her eyes flickering between her sons briefly. “Well, welcome!”</p><p>“Thank you.” He wondered if he should hug her, or shake her hand, or kiss her hand. Was that acceptable? He’d never had a mother-in-law before. He didn’t know the rules, especially the rules of this new century. In the end, he decided on saying, “It’s an honor to meet you, Mrs. Winchester.” She could never understand how much he meant that.</p><p>Out of the corners of his eyes, he saw Dean look away in a blush and Sam hide a laugh behind his fist. Mary gave a sound of surprised humor and said, “Oh, wow! An honor? No pressure there or anything.”</p><p>Castiel didn’t know if that was a joke or not. He opened his mouth to assure her that she had no cause for concern; but, before he could, Dean cleared his throat loudly and said, “Hey, why don’t we take this somewhere with less FAA regulations?”</p><p>Mary touched his arm and agreed, “Good idea.” She and Sam turned, heading for the door. As they went, Mary hooked her arm into his and said, “So, tell me about your first semester…”</p><p>Castiel moved to follow them. He barely got a step in before Dean halted him with a hand to his chest. Castiel squinted at him in question.</p><p>“Dude,” Dean told him severely, “you gotta cool it with the <em>honor</em> crap.”</p><p>Castiel titled his head. He hadn’t meant to come across disingenuous. “It’s true,” he said. “She’s the mother of the man I waited hundreds of years for. The man I married—”</p><p>“Okay, yeah, uh,” Dean stammered out. He pressed his lips together awkwardly. Then, he reached for the strap of the duffle and pulled it off Castiel’s shoulder, muttering something about it being his turn to carry it. Castiel got the feeling he was stalling. “About that…”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>Dean sighed, adjusting the bag on his shoulder. In a rush, almost as though he was frustrated, he admitted, “She doesn’t know anything, okay?”</p><p>Castiel didn’t see why that was any cause for concern. Dean hadn’t known of his own past life a month ago; Castiel had expected him to wait to tell his mother until it was a conversation they could have in person.</p><p>“I understand.”</p><p>Dean’s brows shot up. “You do?”</p><p>“Of course. It’s a delicate topic. Sam didn’t even believe us until we showed him proof.”</p><p>Dean withered. “Yeah, but… Uh.” He glanced at the crowd as though making sure no one was listening in. “Cas. She… she doesn’t know we’re married.”</p><p>Castiel felt himself go still. He couldn’t understand why Dean hadn’t told him that. He’d assumed that Mary knew, that Dean had told her. Perhaps that was his mistake.</p><p>And, really, he supposed he should have known better.</p><p>He pinched his lips and stared off to the side, watching the people move around them. He didn’t really see any of them.</p><p>“She thinks you’re just my boyfriend,” Dean explained. He lifted his palm, like he was trying to stop Castiel from speaking. But what would Castiel even say? “I know, I know. It’s shitty of me. But look at it from her perspective. To her, we’ve known each other for a couple weeks! People don’t just meet and get hitched in the span of a month anymore. It’s already weird enough I’m bringing you home for Thanksgiving. So, let’s just…” He ran the pad of his thumb across his lower lip. “Keep this a secret for now?”</p><p>Castiel assumed he was fortunate for being let in on this secret at all.</p><p>He couldn’t bring himself to look at Dean. “Why didn’t you tell me?”</p><p>Dean let out another heavy breath. “I didn’t think you’d wanna come.”</p><p>Castiel’s gaze snapped toward him, eyes sharp. He’d always planned on springing this information on Castiel when they arrived and there was no turning back.</p><p>So, all Dean’s talk about trusting each other more was meaningless. Apparently, it only applied to Castiel.</p><p>“Then that would have been my decision,” he bit out. “And if it’s so <em>weird</em>, maybe it’s better if I stayed in Amherst.” He could have had Thanksgiving with Kelly and Jack. Kelly had already invited him—and the Winchesters—before he informed her they were headed to Kansas for the long weekend.</p><p>“Cas, c’mon! Nobody wants that!” He said it like Castiel was the one being foolish.</p><p>It incensed him.</p><p>He tried to tame himself. “When will you tell her?”</p><p>Dean’s eyes flashed with apprehension. It was all Castiel needed. He nodded, disappointed.</p><p>“Look,” Dean placated. He put his hands on Castiel’s shoulders. Castiel was too tired to shake him off. “I’ll tell her. Everything. I just… gotta figure out how.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Can we talk about this later?”</p><p>Castiel didn’t know when <em>later</em> was. Still, he nodded. Anything was better than standing around in baggage claim wanting to wring his husband’s neck.</p><p>“Okay.” Dean patted Castiel’s shoulders before releasing them. “C’mon, let’s try to catch up.” He turned and walked toward the door. Castiel lingered momentarily, watching Dean’s weight shift from foot to foot, eyeing the way his shoulders moved beneath the swish of his leather jacket.</p><p>His gait was the same as Castiel always knew it to be. Even after all that time, Castiel knew the sound of Dean’s footsteps as if they were a tattoo in his heart.</p><p>It was Dean. Castiel was certain of it. It was <em>his</em> Dean.</p><p>He wouldn’t admit it, but he became less and less sure of that fact each time he had to remind himself.</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p> </p><p>The Winchesters’ house was on a quiet street in a town called Lawrence. It had been a forty-minute drive from the airport, but they stopped at a diner on the way for dinner, as Mary would be “doing enough cooking tomorrow.” Castiel spent most of the meal staring out at the cars zipping by on the county road outside. His frowning face had reflected back at him in the window, transparent and sallow.</p><p>He only joined the conversation when Mary asked him questions. Where did he grow up? What did he study in school? What was his family like? He wasn’t certain how he should answer any of those questions because he didn’t know what Dean had told her. A spiteful part of him wished to tell her the truth.</p><p>
  <em>I grew up in Amherst. I received a classical education at the local college before the university was even a thought. My family members all died in the 1800s, I assume. I did, too. So did Dean.</em>
</p><p>He decided against it.</p><p>Not for Dean’s sake, even though the mature part of Castiel’s brain did understand his reasoning for not telling his mother the truth. He held his tongue because Mary seemed to be a kind woman, like her sons, and she meant the world to Dean. Castiel didn’t want to make a bad impression, and he certainly didn’t want to ruin his first Thanksgiving, no matter how satisfying he imagined it would feel in the moment.</p><p>They’d been at the house for a few hours now. Castiel and Sam had set the table in the kitchen so they wouldn’t have to do it in the morning. Mary did what cooking prep she needed to do ahead of the meal, laughing each time Sam or Dean harassed her about her lack of culinary skills. Meanwhile, Dean worked on making three pies that no one had asked for: apple, pecan, and pumpkin. Dean had flour on his shirt and the entire house smelled of cinnamon by the time Sam yawned widely and said his goodnights.</p><p>Castiel excused himself soon after, aware of Dean’s eyes on him while he left the kitchen. Behind him, he heard Dean and Mary’s murmured conversation.</p><p>He meant to go straight to Dean’s bedroom, but the framed photographs hanging on the wall along the stairs distracted him. He took his time looking at them—some portraits, some candids, all in color. There were various pictures of Sam and Dean at young ages, ranging from infants to their high school graduation. There were some of Mary, some of people Castiel didn’t know, and a few family portraits with a man who could only be John Winchester.</p><p>It was strange to be able to put faces to names after so long not knowing. Dean Winchester had a family. He’d lived a full life, one Castiel hadn’t been a part of. So had Dean Wesson. Castiel didn’t know why either thought was so difficult to swallow.</p><p>He found himself staring blankly at a portrait of an infant smiling widely at the camera. Tuffs of brown hair had barely grown in yet; the eyes hadn’t yet become their permanent green.</p><p>“Oh. Castiel.”</p><p>Castiel blinked himself awake. He didn’t know how long he’d been standing there. He must have zoned out. He looked at the bottom of the stairs, finding Mary hovering there, one foot on the bottom step, her hand on the railing.</p><p>“I thought you’d gone to bed,” she said.</p><p>Castiel wondered if he’d done something wrong. These photographs were there for anyone to see, but he couldn’t help but feel as if he were intruding. An outsider stealing another’s happy memories. “I apologize.”</p><p>“No, no,” she softly assured. She walked up the stairs, coming to a rest just a few steps beneath him. From the kitchen, Castiel could still hear Dean clattering around. It almost felt familiar, but only as a longing. A wish, imagined time and time again. It afforded him some warmth in his time alone, even after the darkness spit him back out.</p><p>His eyes moved back to the picture. “That’s Dean.” He didn’t know why he’d said it aloud.</p><p>“Yeah,” Mary confirmed. “It’s funny. No one can ever tell. Sam and Dean looked really similar when they were babies. Sometimes I even have trouble telling old pictures apart.”</p><p>Castiel wanted to say that he’d always be able to tell. He’d always know Dean. In his heart, he didn’t know if he could make it sound convincing. He said nothing.</p><p>Instead, he looked to the picture next to it: John Winchester, young, in uniform. “And that’s Mr. Winchester?” he asked, pointing.</p><p>Mary nodded, smiling sadly at the picture. “Yeah, John.” She put her hand on her chest, as though to comfort herself, and Castiel saw the wedding band on her finger. His own fingers idly touched the ring he wore. “He’s been gone a few years now. Dean told you he was a Marine, right?”</p><p>Castiel nodded. Apparently, John Winchester had died in the service. It seemed that was his fate no matter what life.</p><p>“He did a few tours. Was gone a lot when the boys were little,” Mary mused, eyes still on the photograph. “It was hard on all of us when he didn’t come home. Dean especially. He worshipped his dad.” She snorted sardonically. “For a while there, I really thought he was gonna follow in John’s footsteps. It was the plan for <em>years</em>. I was so happy when he decided to go to school instead of enlist. I was a military brat, too, and I never wanted that life for my kids.” She shrugged. “But here we are.”</p><p>For a moment, she fell quiet. Then, “I still don’t really know why Dean decided against it.”</p><p>Castiel turned to her more fully, knitting his brows. It seemed obvious to him, but perhaps he had a different perspective. He thought of Dean’s previous life—transient, brutal. Dean had become a soldier the moment his mother died; technically, he’d stopped being one after John died, but even before Castiel knew the truth, he knew the fight would never leave Dean. He was too bull-headed, too brave, too selfless.</p><p>But his sense of duty wasn’t just for his country or innocent people; above all, it for those he loved. What if Mary Wesson had never been killed? What if Dean had no reason to become a soldier? The fight was still inside him in this life; it just had nowhere to go. And, because of that, it transformed back into what it always had been: responsibility. Love.</p><p>“Because of you,” Castiel told her.</p><p>She looked at him with perplexity.</p><p>Castiel didn’t know how to explain other than to say, “He’s lucky he has you. And that he and Sam have someone other than each other.”</p><p>Still, Mary didn’t seem like she fully understood, but her expression turned gentler. “Thank you, Castiel.”</p><p>He pressed his lips together and nodded, wishing he could say more.</p><p>“I’m happy you decided to join us,” she told him, sounding like she was about to say goodnight. “Even though I’m sure your family is missing you for the holiday.”</p><p>He tensed. He didn’t want to lie to her, but he had to tell her something. “Oh, my… my family’s dead.” It sounded too blunt.</p><p>She jerked her head back, blinking rapidly. “Oh my—God, Castiel, I’m so sorry.”</p><p>He nodded, not having meant to startle her. “Thank you. It was a long time ago.” A <em>very</em> long time.</p><p>She stammered out a few noises, and he couldn’t help but feel like he’d made the situation awkward. But then she said, “Well. You’re welcome here any time.”</p><p>He appreciated that. “Thank you.”</p><p>She patted him on the arm before ducking around him and heading up the stairs. He turned to follow her, but then another picture caught his eye. Dean, likely no older than ten, was standing in front of a cornfield, a giant pumpkin almost larger than he was hugged to his chest. It had a first prize ribbon on it.</p><p>Mary caught him looking at the photograph. She laughed lightly again. “Lawrence town fair. He won the junior’s competition for growing the largest pumpkin that year. Grew it right in the backyard.” She shook her head at the memory. “He always did have a green thumb. No idea where he got that from!” She turned and continued up the stairs.</p><p>Castiel looked at the photo for a moment longer. “Yes,” he whispered, too low for her to hear, “he always did.”</p><p>He made his way up the rest of the flight and down the narrow hall to Dean’s bedroom. It was set up relatively the same way as their room in Amherst: a bed without a frame pushed into the corner, a desk and a chair, a dresser and a closet. There was also a bookshelf loaded with old textbooks and authors like Vonnegut and Kerouac. There were more framed photographs on the shelves, too, none of them recent, and medals and plaques reading <em>Douglas County Wrestling High School Tournament – 1<sup>st</sup> Place</em>. A military uniform hat sat next to them. Posters depicting rock and roll band logos or cars were tacked onto the walls.</p><p>Castiel undressed for bed, kicking off his shoes and tossing his jeans haphazardly on top of their duffle bag on the floor. He sat on the edge of the bed, staring around the room, fiddling with his ring.</p><p>His conversation with Mary played over in his mind, and he wondered if he’d been too quick to anger or suspicion with Dean. He knew, above all else, Dean only wanted what was best for Castiel. He likely had good reason for never telling him about the witches, magic, the Men of Letters, any of it. Dean probably thought he was protecting him. But things were different now, and Castiel didn’t need to be kept in the dark. He never had. He wished Dean would accept the same care he offered others. He wished Dean would understand that they were supposed to look out for each other.</p><p>There were footsteps outside the door. Castiel breathed out, letting his eyes slip closed to bask in the familiar sound of them. He was weary from traveling, and he wanted to curl up against Dean’s warmth and sleep. Part of him was still too angry to even consider the possibility.</p><p>Castiel’s eyes opened the moment the door did. Dean stepped in, flour still lining his cheeks and the front of his shirt. He looked younger somehow, standing there in the house where he’d grown up. Less guarded. Not tired, but relaxed. Still, there were traces of anxiety in his gaze when it met Castiel’s. Dean tried for a low-wattage smile.</p><p>“Hey,” he grumbled, coming further into the room. He walked over to the duffle and sifted through it for a new shirt.</p><p>“Hi,” Castiel said quietly, looking down at his lap. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Dean stand up and shuck off his t-shirt. He tossed it into the hamper near the door, the fabric landing on the rim and hanging there. His expanse of freckled skin was covered by a fresh shirt.</p><p>Castiel didn’t know what to say. He felt as self-conscious and flustered as he did around Dean when he’d first met him. “Are you… finished baking?”</p><p>“Pies are all assembled and in the fridge. I’ll bake ‘em tomorrow morning,” was the answer. Dean toed off his boots and took off his jeans. He paced toward the bed, and the mattress dipped under his weight. Castiel’s skin buzzed against the space between them, not quite touching. They both faced forward. Dean said, “Cas? Are we… good?”</p><p>It was a loaded question. Castiel wasn’t certain there was one answer. “I don’t know.”</p><p>Dean dipped his head to the side in a nod, not quite accepting it. “Okay. Look, I know you’re pissed that I didn’t tell you about… anything, but—” he swiveled to face Castiel, “can you blame me? We just found out I’m basically a serial killer!”</p><p>Is that really what he thought of himself? Castiel scrunched his brow. All that time, Dean hadn’t been trying to protect Castiel from magic; he’d been protecting him from himself. It was ridiculous.</p><p>“You’re not a killer, Dean.”</p><p>Dean scoffed. “Right, well, my memories say different.”</p><p>He was ashamed. He was remorseful. He didn’t have to be any of those things.</p><p>Castiel looked down at Dean’s hands—the hands that held weapons, did harm. They had baking flour on them. They’d been covered in dirt from the delicate act of making flowers grow. They’d played the piano. They touched Castiel with such tremendous care.</p><p>Dean wasn’t a bad person. He was the best person Castiel had ever known.</p><p>“Dean, you helped people,” he said gently, not to startle him into shutting the conversation down. “You saved people, and they lived their lives and had children and their descendants are out there somewhere right now.”</p><p>Dean pursed his lips and nodded curtly down at his lap. Castiel knew he was getting through to him. And maybe Castiel could never fully understand the horrors of Dean’s nightmares, but he was proud of him. Dean was a hero. Dean was good, despite the life that he’d lived. Perhaps that was why Dean had been given a second chance at life: so that he might finally have the peace he deserved in the first.</p><p>Castiel slid his hand into Dean’s and said, “I understand why you didn’t tell me.” Their fears were the same. Dean didn’t want to be rejected. “But you don’t have to manipulate me.”</p><p>“I wasn’t trying to—” Dean said, his eyes closing in frustration.</p><p>Castiel knew his intentions were pure, but it didn’t change the fact. “Yes, but you did. And you did today as well.”</p><p>“Cas, I <em>want</em> you here.”</p><p>Castiel squeezed his hand to shut him up. “And I would have come even if you’d told me the truth. Just like I would have stayed with you if you told me of your past. Dean, no matter what you think you have to do… it isn’t necessary. I meant it when I said that nothing would ever change my feelings for you.”</p><p>Dean’s throat worked. Castiel was making him uncomfortable, but he didn’t care. Dean needed to hear these things. He turned his face to Castiel, eyes glassy but hard and jaw tight.</p><p>“Whatever guilt you’re shouldering, I would like to share it. But give me the choice.”</p><p>Dean seemed to consider it. Eventually, he nodded, looking more ashamed than before. “Okay,” he said simply.</p><p>Castiel decided it was enough for tonight, even if Dean was less than convinced. “Okay,” he repeated. “Now, can we please go to bed? I never imagined being at such high altitudes would exhaust me as much as it did.”</p><p>When Dean laughed, it was breathy and thick. He swallowed it down. “Yeah, I’m beat, too.” He got up and crossed back to the door to flip the light switch. Meanwhile, Castiel scooted back on the bed to the side closest to the wall and tucked himself under the covers. When Dean returned, he fit himself in against Castiel, his cheek on Castiel’s chest and his arm slung over his torso. Castiel wrapped his arm around Dean’s back.</p><p>There was a foreign kind of quiet filling the house: the rattle of the heat, the water in the pipes, the rustling of the tree outside the window as a breeze swept through the barren branches. And there was the steady sound of Dean’s breathing, which was the only familiar thing. It was nice—homey. Castiel thought he could get used to it.</p><p>He liked Kansas so far. They hadn’t spoken of any plans for after Dean’s graduation, but Castiel wouldn’t object to living in Kansas, if Dean wished. He had no qualms about leaving Amherst behind him for good.</p><p>After a while, Dean said, “Tell you what. I think my mom likes you.”</p><p>Castiel opened his eyes to the darkness, a hopeful thrill spreading through him. He wanted Dean to be right. “How do you know?”</p><p>Dean shifted. He put his chin on Castiel’s chest and smiled up at him. “’Cause I like you, and what I say goes.”</p><p>Castiel rolled his eyes, unable to fight back a coy grin. He admitted, “I like you, too.”</p><p>“That right?” Dean laughed. He lifted his head and inched their faces closer.</p><p>Castiel nodded.</p><p>Against Castiel’s mouth, Dean joked, “Yeah, you better,” before kissing him.</p><p>“Less and less every day,” Castiel answered between kisses.</p><p>Dean gasped dramatically, pulling away sharply. “Dick!” Castiel had half a second to be smug before Dean set in on his ribs. He kicked and flailed, trying to get Dean off of him. He wasn’t ticklish, not like Dean, but Dean had once managed to find the one spot on his body that elicited a response and Castiel spent the rest of time ruing that discovery. He hated it, the complete loss of control. Though, if anyone could render him that way, he was glad it was Dean.</p><p>“Dean, stop!”</p><p>Dean rolled on top of him to keep him in place.</p><p>“<em>Dean</em>!” Castiel’s lungs were burning. So were his cheeks. He fruitlessly did all he could to shove Dean away.</p><p>But Dean eventually gave up in favor of spreading out on top of Castiel and pecking kisses to his lips. It was easier to smile then, even though Castiel was silently plotting his revenge for when Dean least expected it.</p><p>After a few kisses, Dean folded his arms on Castiel’s collarbone and pillowed his chin on top of them. His eyes were shaded by the darkness, but Castiel could see the whites of them glistening. Dean looked back at him for some time, then lifted one hand to blanket it over Castiel’s eyes.</p><p>Castiel ignored the gut panic of not being able to see. He focused on Dean’s sturdy weight on top of him, the warmth of his hand, the rise and fall of his stomach. He trusted Dean not to leave him alone in the cold dark.</p><p>Out of the nothingness came Dean’s whispered voice: “You know, it’s kinda nice—getting away from all that past life shit for a couple days. We could be… I dunno. Normal.”</p><p>Although Castiel knew they would never exactly be <em>normal</em>, he could picture it so clearly that it played before his vision. They could grow old together, have a family, be together, have a life in the way any other couple could. It still seemed like a far-off dream, something Castiel could never really have. The want of it, the possibility, made his chest ache in something akin to happiness.</p><p>He felt himself nodding.</p><p>Dean lifted his hand, and Castiel blinked up at him.</p><p>“I’d like to be normal with you,” Castiel whispered.</p><p>Dean grinned. “Now, see, I can arrange that. I can be <em>so</em> normal! I’m talking Fourth of July BBQs, yelling at the TV during football games, apple pie normal.”</p><p>Castiel bit back his laughter and shook his head fractionally.</p><p>Dean kept going, becoming animated: “I’ll be so boring, I’ll knock your socks off, sweetheart!”</p><p>It was the best thing Castiel could possibly imagine. His throat constricted. He couldn’t speak. All he could get out was, “Yes.”</p><p>“Yeah?” Dean confirmed, brows popping. “Awesome.”</p><p>Castiel kissed him again. Then, Dean shifted off of him and tucked back in against his side. They stayed quiet, and soon Dean dropped off to sleep. Castiel followed after him, the scent of Dean’s hair filling him up. He hoped he would dream that night. He hoped he’d dream of their future.</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p> </p><p>He didn’t dream that night, but the frigid waters sloshing in his gut were becoming shallower and shallower each time he awoke. Before he even opened his eyes, he was aware of the sunlight pooling through the cracks in the curtains. Before he knew anything else, he knew the sweet smell of something cooking. The scent had permeated the house and drew him into consciousness.</p><p>Dean’s bed was warm, smaller than the one they shared in Amherst, which was fine by Castiel because it gave him reason to curl up close to Dean all night as they slept. Dean wasn’t in bed when Castiel’s eyes fluttered open, but he assumed he was already helping prepare the meal. From downstairs, Castiel heard voices through the floorboard. He got up, showered in the hallway bathroom, dressed, and headed to the kitchen. His mouth was watering by the time he reached the bottom of the stairs.</p><p>In the living room, two announcers were on the television. They sat outside, bundled in warm coats and scarves, and commented on the parade of giant balloons that overtook the streets of New York City. None of the Winchesters were watching the program, so he followed the sound of their voices into the kitchen.</p><p>Sam and Mary, still in their pajamas, were bustling around the small space. Mary was near the sink, peeling yams; Sam made use of the limited counter space near the stove to mix something in a large tin bowl. A dozen different aromas arrested Castiel’s senses, making his empty stomach complain. His eyes flickered to three pies cooling on the window’s ledge. Dean was nowhere in sight.</p><p>Mary must have sensed his presence. She glanced over her shoulder, a smile coming to her face. “Good morning, Castiel.”</p><p>It prompted Sam to look around, too. “Cas. Hey!”</p><p>“Good morning,” Castiel told them, stepping further into the kitchen. But not too far. He didn’t wish to get in the way. He remembered being chastised by the scullery maids as a child whenever he’d gotten in the way of cooking and cleaning up. As he grew, he learned not to step foot in the kitchen, even when the staff weren’t busy. His father had told him it was no place for him, and perhaps he was right, but Castiel wanted to make use of himself for the Winchesters.</p><p>“How’d you sleep?” Mary asked him, going back to her task.</p><p>It struck Castiel as an odd question, one no one had ever asked him before. Maybe his mother would have if he’d been old enough to hold many memories of her before her passing.</p><p>“Fine,” he answered, eyes again lighting about the room as if they’d somehow missed Dean in their initial search. “Where’s Dean?”</p><p>“Uh, grocery store,” Sam said. His stirring became more aggressive, the wooden spoon knocking against the side of the bowel like he couldn’t get the lumps out of whatever was inside.</p><p>Castiel scrunched his nose dubiously. “Why?” Every flat surface was laden with trays of side dishes, patiently awaiting their turn to be put in the oven. Even the turkey, stuffed and seasoned and still raw, sat inside an aluminum baking tray atop the stove. What more could they possibly need?</p><p>Mary snorted. “God, I hope for more food. We don’t have enough!” Castiel only recognized it as a joke when Sam chuckled.</p><p>He nodded, and then flapped his arms against his sides uselessly. “Well, is there anything I can do?”</p><p>“Yeah, actually,” Sam said. “You can help me fill these cupcake trays with batter for the corn muffins.” He held the mixing bowl aloft against his chest. “They need to go into the oven after the pumpkin bread comes out.”</p><p>Castiel had no idea how to make muffins, but how difficult could it be? He traded places with Sam, who reached over his mother to rattle through the contents of the cabinet above her head. It looked like it took some effort to get through the stakes of pots and lids, but he eventually produced a giant vat and filled it up with water.</p><p>Meanwhile, Castiel worked on filling the cupcake tins with the pale-yellow batter in the bowl. It kept dripping onto his fingers and along the rims on the tin, and he wondered if it would be unseemly to lick it off. He was still hungry, but he wasn’t certain he should eat breakfast with the sheer amount of food.</p><p>Sam heaved the half-full pot over to the stove and grunted as he set it down on one of the burners. Then, suddenly, “Whoa, Cas!” Castiel thought he’d done something wrong until Sam gave a soft laugh. “You don’t have to fill them all the way. Just halfway. Trust me, they’ll rise.”</p><p>“Oh,” Castiel said, feeling silly. He began scooping spoonfuls of batter out of the pockets and putting them in the empty ones.</p><p>While Sam turned on the stove to heat up the water, Castiel asked, “Are we expected to eat all this food alone?” There were only four of them, unless others were coming and he didn’t know.</p><p>“No. No way,” Sam told him.</p><p>Castiel didn’t understand. “Then why is there so much?”</p><p>“For leftovers, mostly.”</p><p>“<em>And</em>,” Mary stressed, still peeling. “We usually make extra and donate it to the local homeless shelter. We’ve been doing it for years.” She sounded proud when she added, “Sam was the one who came up with the idea.”</p><p>Castiel felt himself smiling. “That’s very kind of you.” All of the Winchesters were good people.</p><p>Sam ducked his head bashfully. “Thanks. But it’s kinda a group effort.” None of the Winchesters could seem to take a compliment.</p><p>Castiel let it slide. He continued on with his task until he heard the front door creak open. Momentarily, there was the sound of footsteps. Dean came into the kitchen, a brown paper bag clutched to his chest.</p><p>“I’m back,” he said in ways of greeting, as if it weren’t obvious. Castiel looked over his shoulder and offered Dean a smile.</p><p>“Finally. You were gone for hours!” Sam said while Dean walked into the kitchen and pecked a kiss to Castiel’s cheek. Castiel should have seen it for the diversion it was. Dean hooked his finger into the batter and shoved it into his mouth. Castiel elbowed him away.</p><p>“Yeah, well, turns out fruit’s hard to come by when it isn’t in season. I had to go to like, three different stores,” Dean excused. He put the paper bag on the counter near the sink and reached inside.</p><p>“Fruit?” Sam echoed skeptically. “For what?”</p><p>Dean pulled out a ripe peach and held it up victoriously. “I’m making peach cobbler for dessert.”</p><p>Castiel stopped short, his eyes meeting Dean’s across the room. Dean’s eyes sparkled. Castiel loved him.</p><p>Apparently, not everyone shared in his tender excitement. Mary dropped her hands against the sink and sighed, “Oh, sweetie. We already have so much dessert.”</p><p>“Okay, first of all, there’s no such thing,” Dean told her. He worked to unload the peaches from inside the bag. “And we’re making a new tradition. Peach cobbler on Thanksgiving. It’s Cas’ favorite.”</p><p>Castiel was aware of Mary and Sam’s eyes falling on him. He only kept looking at Dean.</p><p>“Okay,” Mary acquiesced. “But good luck, because we still have a lot of other stuff that needs to go in the oven.”</p><p>“Don’t worry,” Dean assured, holding up his hand. “I’ll put it together now and bake it while we’re eating. I got it all figured out.”</p><p>Castiel went back to filling up the cupcake tray, happiness humming in his chest at the effort Dean took to find the peaches.</p><p>“How’s the turkey brine coming?” he heard Dean ask Mary.</p><p>“It’s fine. Relax.” Mary looked back again and told Castiel, “Dean walks into the kitchen and suddenly the house turns into a dictatorship.”</p><p>Castiel thought of Benny. He wondered if Benny had been the one who taught Dean to cook, or if that was a skill he picked up on his own.</p><p>“Hey, no one’s messing with the second most important meal of the year,” Dean defended.</p><p>“What’s the first?” Castiel wondered.</p><p>“Tomorrow’s leftover sandwich.”</p><p>Sam leaned in and said, “He has that sandwich down to an artform.”</p><p>“Damn right, I do!” Dean yelled with exuberance.</p><p>Castiel was intrigued by how highly the Winchesters spoke of these leftovers, but he doubted they could be as good as the original dinner.</p><p>By the time dinner was over, Castiel ended up eating enough to swear off turkey and stuffing for the rest of his life, which, according to Dean, was the whole point.</p><p>Thankfully, Castiel had a couple of hours to digest before dessert. After dinner, Dean and Mary stayed at the house to clean up and reheat the pies. Castiel helped Sam load their donations into Mary’s muscle car and accompanied him to drop them off at the homeless shelter. Christmas music played on the radio on the drive back, and Castiel kept his gaze out the window to take in the town where Dean had grown up. He also told Sam about reading President Lincoln’s address at Gettysburg when he announced Thanksgiving as a national holiday. Sam made him promise not to tell Dean that, as “Dean’ll think he invented Thanksgiving and we’ll never hear the end of it.”</p><p>Night had fallen by the time they arrived back at the house. The entranceway was warm compared to the chill outside, instantly thawing Castiel’s red nose and numb fingers. The house was fragrant with baked goods. Despite the fact that it was still early, Castiel’s eyelids fell heavily, and the rest of him felt pleasant, relaxed. He’d enjoyed his first holiday with the Winchesters. He imagined this is what holidays are meant to be like. In fact, this was the first time since his resurrection that he truly felt as if he belonged in this world.</p><p>Sam clapped him on the back and announced he was headed upstairs to “put on some sweats.” Castiel nodded softly and watched him hustle up the steps. He moved further into the house, peering into the living room when he heard the sounds of the football game on the television. The coffee table was loaded with the pies, but Dean and Mary weren’t there. The gentle sounds of their voices carried down the hall.</p><p>The closer Castiel got to the kitchen, the more distinguishable their words became. He heard Dean say, “Okay, I think this is ready to come out.” There were some beeping sounds as he turned off the oven.</p><p>“Peach cobbler,” Mary said, tone teasing. “A new tradition, huh? Guess that means Castiel’s sticking around?”</p><p>Castiel stopped outside the threshold, hovering just out of sight. He knew it was wrong to eavesdrop, but his heart rate had suddenly spiked. He wondered if this was it, if Dean was going to tell her. He didn’t want to intrude and make Dean lose his nerve.</p><p>Or maybe Dean would want him there for moral support?</p><p>“Yeah, guess he is,” Dean said. Castiel’s lips pulled into a small smile at the thought of more Thanksgivings with his new family.</p><p>He heard Mary sigh. It wasn’t combative or weary, but there was something dubious about it. “And you don’t think you’re taking things a little too… fast?” she asked, and, logically, Castiel couldn’t fault her that. Like Dean had said, she thought they’d only known each other for a handful of weeks. It was an understandable reaction for a mother to be protective of her child. Still, Castiel’s stomach tightened.</p><p>He told himself it didn’t matter. Dean would correct her soon enough.</p><p>Dean gave a shallow laugh. “Trust me, we’re really not.”</p><p>“Honey, you’ve known him for a month.”</p><p>“Feels like forever.”</p><p>Castiel wished Dean would stop with the humor and hints. He felt as though he were about to vibrate out of his skin from anticipation.</p><p>“<em>Okay</em>,” Mary sang, like she was surrendering but still had her doubts. “Fine by me. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I like Castiel. I’m happy you found someone. But…”</p><p>Castiel gnashed his teeth.</p><p>“What?” Dean asked hesitantly.</p><p>There was another loud exhale. “Dean, sweetie, is something on your mind? You just seem… I dunno, distracted, maybe?”</p><p>Castiel didn’t even dare to breathe. He strained his hearing as hard as he could, listening out for even the smallest of sounds from within the kitchen.</p><p>There was a long pause.</p><p>This was it. It had to be it.</p><p>“Who me?” Dean said airily. “Nah, c’mon. I’m good.”</p><p>Castiel didn’t know what he’d expected. The tension in his body uncoiled, excitement fizzling out and turning to disappointment. It felt like cold coals in his stomach.</p><p>“You sure?” Mary asked.</p><p>“Yeah! You don’t need to worry about me, Mom.”</p><p>Castiel told himself not to let it sting. There were plenty of reasons why Dean wouldn’t initiate the conversation then and there. It was bound to be a lengthy discussion, not suited for standing around the kitchen before dessert. And, after all, maybe Dean <em>did</em> want Castiel to be a part of it.</p><p>He swallowed down his emotion, forced himself to be rational, and stepped into the kitchen. “Hello.”</p><p>Both Dean and Mary’s eyes flashed in surprise, and then they looked away in the way people do when the topic of their conversation walks into the room. Castiel played ignorant.</p><p>“Hey,” Dean said, clearing his throat. “Where’s Sammy?” Leaning against the counter, he stretched out his arm to invite Castiel in.</p><p>“Upstairs. Changing,” Castiel reported. He sidled up to Dean’s side, and he felt far too stiff when Dean’s arm hooked around him. He also tried to ignore Mary looking at them, even though her gaze was pleased, because it still felt strange to show this kind of affection around other people. Castiel didn’t think he’d ever truly get used to it. He circled his arms around Dean’s torso to prove to himself it was allowed.</p><p>It didn’t feel taboo; but, at the same time, it absolutely did.</p><p>“Ah! Good for him. I feel like my belt’s a little too tight,” Dean joked, turning his face to Castiel. Castiel offered a pinched smile in return, hoping it looked genuine. He was unable to meet Dean’s eyes for very long.</p><p>Instead, he focused on Mary. “Is there anything I can do?”</p><p>“Uh, yeah,” she said unsurely. She blew out her cheeks and searched around the counter for the oven mitts. When she found them, he swiped them up and walked toward the cobbler cooling on top of the stove. “I’ll take this into the other room. Why don’t you bring out some forks and, Dean, can you get the plates?”</p><p>“Of course,” Castiel said at the same time as Dean told her, “Sure thing.”</p><p>Mary picked up the dish and left the kitchen. Castiel wasn’t certain what to do now that he was alone with Dean. He loosened his arms, meaning to draw away to go to the drawer with the utensils; but Dean’s hold on him tightened fractionally, just long enough for Dean to drop a kiss to his temple. Castiel knew he felt guilty for missing his opportunity to be candid with his mother.</p><p>He got to his task, the cutlery clinking as he picked them up piece by piece out of the drawer. Behind him, he was hyper-aware of Dean getting the plates. They were both going in slow motion, and Castiel waited for Dean to speak his mind. As for Castiel, his own thoughts were poised at the tip of his tongue. He had to bite them back, telling himself they didn’t matter.</p><p>He couldn’t keep it up for very long.</p><p>“You didn’t tell her.” He hadn’t meant to sound so despondent or accusatory.</p><p>Dean sighed, the line of his shoulders drooping. He set the plates on the counter and turned around. “How much of that did you hear?” he asked, folding his arms across his chest.</p><p>Castiel set the forks and knives down and turned around to lean against the counter, putting his side to Dean. He gripped the counter’s edges behind him. He didn’t think he had to answer that question. It wasn’t relevant.</p><p>“Look, I chickened out,” Dean told him, shrugging out his hands. “But, sorry, I kinda don’t want the stereotypical Thanksgiving drama.”</p><p>Castiel tilted in his chin back and breathed in through his nose. “I wasn’t aware that was a stereotype.”</p><p>“Oh, believe me, it is!” Dean ducked his head then, muttering, "She's better off not knowing, anyway."</p><p>Castiel lifted his brow, uncertain of whether or not he was meant to hear that.</p><p><em>Like I was better off?</em> he wanted to say, but held his tongue.</p><p>He heard Sam’s rushing footsteps down the stairs, followed soon after by his and Mary’s voices filtering through the walls.</p><p>Dean dropped his hand to the counter and said, calmer, “I’m gonna tell her, okay? I promise. Before we leave on Sunday. That gives me two days to figure out how the hell I’m gonna say it.”</p><p>Castiel nodded, telling himself that was acceptable. Dean was going through a lot. He should be allowed time to gather his thoughts. In truth, Castiel didn’t know why it mattered so much to him. This was Dean’s family. He shouldn’t be pressured to tell his mother anything if he wasn’t ready. It shouldn’t matter to Castiel.</p><p>He had Dean. That should have been enough.</p><p>But, at the same time, it <em>did</em> matter. They’d spent so long hiding. Castiel didn’t want to do that anymore.</p><p>Still, if Dean needed a day or two, he’d grant it. There was no sense in ruining the holiday.</p><p>“Whatever—whatever you think is best,” he said. He turned his head to look at Dean. “And, if you’d prefer I be a part of the conversation when you do tell her, I’ll be there.”</p><p>“I know,” Dean said. “I appreciate that. But just… let me think about it. But I <em>will</em> tell her, Cas. Trust me.”</p><p>Castiel wanted to trust him. A part of him even did.</p><p>“Okay.”</p><p>“Okay,” Dean echoed. He picked the plates off the counter then, and forced brightness. “Now, let’s go see if that cobbler’s as good as Benny’s.” He quickly left the kitchen.</p><p>Castiel picked up the utensils, silently rallying himself meanwhile. He followed Dean into the living room.</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p> </p><p>The weekend rolled by, and Castiel spent much of it being carted around town. Dean showed him the high school he’d attended, the farm he and his friends used to sneak onto after hours to smoke, the bars he’d frequented, which was apparently when his skill for forgery first took shape—though Castiel assumed that talent must have, in some form, been carried over from his last life. And, as much as he liked learning about Dean’s adolescence ad nauseam, he couldn’t help but notice how little time they actually spent at the house. It felt like Dean was stalling, or avoiding.</p><p>Before Castiel knew it, it was Saturday night and, to his knowledge, Dean still hadn’t spoken to his mother. Mary was currently curled up on the living room couch, Sam sitting on the cushion next to her. Castiel was slumped in the armchair, barely paying attention to the black and white film on the television about a man who wished he’d never been born and his guardian angel. The flickering light from the flatscreen was the only thing illuminating the darkness.</p><p>Dean was in the kitchen, apparently working on the last of the leftovers. Castiel worked his jaw in thought, considering going into the kitchen to speak with Dean. Their flight was early in the morning, and the clock was ticking closer and closer to bedtime.</p><p>And Castiel didn’t understand Dean’s reluctance. If he truly wasn’t prepared to tell Mary that they were married, and all that entailed, he’d understand. But Dean had offered him assurances time and time again over the weekend. Castiel chose to believe he was being honest, but his faith was failing.</p><p>Then, he heard Dean’s footsteps enter the room. He glanced up, eyes finding Dean’s. Dean shot him a guarded, meaningful look. His face was drawn. His posture was rigid, hands fisted and fidgeting at his sides. Castiel’s breath caught. He sat up in his chair.</p><p>Both Sam and Mary brought their attention to Dean. Sam’s jaw clamped, and he and Castiel shared a fleeting glance. Mary said, concern in her voice, “Dean? What’s wrong?”</p><p>“Mom, I gotta tell you something. It’s not gonna be easy,” Dean said in a rush. His voice was rough and his words sounded practiced. His eyes were fixed on his mother, barely blinking. Castiel wished he could take Dean’s hand and coax the tension from his body. He fisted his hands on his lap instead, not wanting to make a single move that would cause Dean to lose his bravado.</p><p>All he could do was hope that Dean knew he was there to support him, as was Sam. They’d get through this together.</p><p>Mary sat up, worry plain on her features. She reached for the remote and muted the television. The characters acted out the scene as silent as ghosts. The blue light continued to wash out the room. “What is it?” Mary asked. She scooted closer to the arm of the couch, offering Dean the spot between her and Sam.</p><p>Dean didn’t sit. He remained perfectly still. He opened his mouth, chest ballooning with air to speak. It deflated as he let it out.</p><p>Castiel’s heart was in his throat.</p><p>Dean’s eyes caught his for the briefest moment before darting away, too fast for Castiel to offer any comfort. He gave another loud exhale, body going slack. Demeanor shifting, he said, “After I graduate, I don’t think I’m gonna come back home for a while. Think I might stay in Mass.”</p><p>Castiel felt himself freeze. He wasn’t certain if he outwardly reacted. He remained still, gaze forward until darkness began creeping in around the sides of his vision like a vignette. Vaguely, he was aware of Sam hanging his head.</p><p>Distantly, he heard Mary saying, surprised but somewhat relieved, “Oh?”</p><p>“Yeah,” Dean said lightly, flapping his arms against his sides. “You know—don’t wanna leave Sammy there alone, especially with the apartment. He can’t afford that by himself. And, you know, we don’t want you helping out more than you already do. That wouldn’t be fair.”</p><p>“Uh, yeah—That’s—That’s understandable, sweetie,” Mary said, still seeming confused.</p><p>When feeling ebbed back into Castiel’s body, it brought a seething fury with it. He wanted it to ruminate, because if it didn’t, he feared it would become choked and stifled and wither into melancholy. It would if he sat there a moment longer, if he kept looking at Dean.</p><p>He stood up, head dizzy with anger. Everyone’s heads swiveled to him. With as much composure as he could muster, he said, “This seems to be a family matter. I’ll leave you.” His eyes seared into Dean. “Goodnight.” He could barely get the word past his teeth.</p><p>Dean attempted to offer him apologetic eyes, but Castiel breezed past him, uninterested. He marched out of the room and toward the stairs. Perhaps, if he was lucky, he could curl up in bed and be taken by the darkness. He never thought he’d wish for it, to be consumed by nothingness, to not exist for a time. He thought it might be a relief.</p><p>There were running footsteps behind him suddenly, and Castiel had only made it up two steps before Sam came to a halt at the bottom of the railing. “Cas, wait.”</p><p>Castiel didn’t know why he stopped. Briefly, he considered continuing on again, but he wasn’t angry with Sam. Sighing, he turned around to face him. Sam’s eyes were large, full of understanding, beseeching. Castiel wasn’t interested in his peacemaking.</p><p>“I know what you expected in there,” Sam said levelly. “I did, too. And I think he really planned on telling her, I do. He just…” He fished for a word, holding his hand up uselessly before letting it fall back to the banister.</p><p>Castiel recalled what Dean had said the other day. “Chickened out?” he supplied.</p><p>Sam nodded. “Yeah.”</p><p>“Then he should have told me he wasn’t ready,” he snapped. “But he didn’t. He lied. Again.” Dean had asked Castiel to trust him, made him promises he couldn’t keep, manipulated Castiel. How many times did Castiel have to tell him that he was on Dean’s side? How many times did he have to ask to be privy to Dean’s thoughts? To his secrets? It was beginning to feel like he was begging for it.</p><p>“He didn’t mean to,” Sam said somberly with a shake of his head. And perhaps he was right. After all, Sam knew Dean better than Castiel did, apparently. Still, Castiel wished he wouldn’t defend his brother. He wasn’t looking for reasoning or a path to forgiveness. He was looking to commiserate. Sam wasn’t offering him that. It was irritating.</p><p>“But you have to know how hard of a conversation that is,” Sam kept on valiantly. “She’s not gonna believe him.”</p><p>“You didn’t either, but we convinced you,” Castiel shot back. “And Charlie.”</p><p>“I know. But she’s our <em>mom</em>.” Sam’s gaze became even more imploring. “It’s different.”</p><p>Castiel considered that. Objectively, he knew Sam was right, but it didn’t change anything. “I wouldn’t know. My mother died of scarlet fever when I was a child.” Dean had known that. Castiel had told him about it in their previous life. Dean had lost his mother before he truly knew her, too.</p><p>Dean Wesson would have given his life to tell his mother anything at all. Dean Winchester had that ability and used it like a weapon against Castiel.</p><p>Sam closed his eyes and swallowed down whatever he was going to say. Visibly rearranging his thoughts, he said, “Okay… I get it, I do. But you have to be patient.”</p><p>No. Castiel would have been patient if Dean had been honest with him. Castiel would have been patient if he hadn’t waited so long for a man he didn’t know as well as he thought he did.</p><p>“I was patient for a hundred and fifty years.”</p><p>Sam dropped his chin, sharp eyes cast downward. He chewed on the inside of his cheek, clearly frustrated.</p><p>In that moment, Castiel didn’t care if he was making Sam angry. He was emotionally tapped out himself. The emptiness was calling. He left Sam at the bottom of the steps.</p>
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<a name="section0016"><h2>16. Chapter 16</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>1867</strong>
</p><p>It was high noon. The sun was beating down on the earth. Even under the shade of the trees in the garden, Castiel was sweating. Despite that, it was a pleasant heat, one that he knew wouldn’t last forever. The stream gurgled, the birds sang, the world smelled pungent and woodsy.</p><p>Castiel sat on the bench, his jacket folded to the side of him, draped over the seat. He slouched, eyes downcast on the manuscript on his lap. Half of the sewn-together pages flopping to one side, tucked behind the ones he had yet to read. The manuscript was drab and uninspiring, and the penmanship was difficult to read at times, and he still had a pile of similar ones to go. His father had instructed him to take notes for review and to write an assessment on which works should be considered for publishing. Chuck was searching for those that would fit with the usual products and ideals of their firm, and this manuscript certainly fit the bill.</p><p>And that was the problem.</p><p>Castiel wished he could read something more contemporary and thought-provoking. Or, at the very least, entertaining.</p><p>He pulled his pocket watch out to check the time. It was a few minutes after the half hour. Sighing, Castiel glanced up at the man snoring soundly across the garden. Dean was sitting on the grass, his back to a trunk. His arms were crossed loosely over his chest and legs were kicked out in front of him, ankles drifting to the sides. His chin dipped downward as he snoozed.</p><p>Castiel regretted having to wake him. Dean hadn’t slept well the night before. He’d gasped in his sleep, and heaved in bouts of air when he awoke. In recent weeks, Dean spent most nights in Castiel’s room, given the quick access of escape by scaling the trellis of roses he’d fixed to the side of the house beneath Castiel’s balcony for that very purpose. In that time, Castiel learned that Dean often slept disquietly.</p><p>Still, Dean had asked Castiel to wake him from his nap when his break was over. It wasn’t wise to keep him. If anyone attempted to seek Dean out, only to not find him after too long, people would start getting suspicious.</p><p>“Dean,” Castiel called. Dean’s snoring hiccupped, but he didn’t wake up. Castiel rolled his eyes. He considered calling again, more loudly, but he still had a fresh recollection of the last time he tried to startle Dean awake by shaking him out of a nightmare. He’d only narrowly avoided a punch to the face.</p><p>How anyone could be so combative while unconscious, Castiel would never know.</p><p>Dean didn’t appear to be dreaming at the moment, but he still wouldn’t risk it. Castiel set his manuscript down on his jacket and crossed the garden. “Dean,” he said again, keeping his voice soft. He had a childish urge to kick at the soles of Dean’s feet, but that would only make Dean mad at him. Besides, there was a better way to wake him up.</p><p>Castiel knelt over Dean, straddling his lap, and brushed his fingers through Dean’s hair. “Dean, wake up. It’s time.” Dean inhaled sharply, waking up. He lifted his chin, blinking owlishly. His eyes were stark green, like they always were when he first woke up. He knuckled at them as he stretched against the bark.</p><p>Castiel bit down a fond smile at the sight and sat down fully on Dean’s lap.</p><p>“‘Mornin’,” Dean mumbled, a tipsy smile coming to his face.</p><p>“Good afternoon,” Castiel corrected. “You told me to wake you when it was time to get back to work. It’s time.”</p><p>Dean groaned. “What, already?”</p><p>“Yes, already.”</p><p>Dean gave another dissatisfied sound, but he seemed to ignore the fact that his break was over. He picked at the cotton of Castiel’s shirt idly, eyes latching onto something over Castiel’s shoulder. “You still reading that thing?”</p><p>Castiel looked around, frowning at the open manuscript. “Unfortunately.” He didn’t want Dean to go back to work. Dean was the only thing that had even slightly entertained him. Without him, Castiel would likely start rotting away due to boredom. He swiveled back around to face Dean. “My mind keeps wandering.”</p><p>“That bad, huh?” Dean asked, resting his head against the tree. His hands framed Castiel’s sides.</p><p>“Worse than the last one.” Was Castiel complaining? He didn’t care. “I know I asked for work at the firm, but all I’ve gotten since are the same dull, tedious assignments. We’ll never draw in more readers with these.” He was beginning to think his father was punishing him for not wanting a wife.</p><p>“That’ll come,” Dean promised, as if he knew such things.</p><p>“When?”</p><p>“I dunno,” he admitted. “But… You do the grunt work now, prove you’re good at it, and then maybe soon you get your own accounts.” He tightened his hands on Castiel’s sides. “And some more money. A fancy house somewhere far away. And you’ll <em>need</em> a groundskeeper.”</p><p>Castiel raised a brow, humored. “Will I? And you believe that job is automatically yours?”</p><p>“You bet, I do,” Dean said, leaning forward. Against Castiel’s mouth, he added, “I got job security.”</p><p>Castiel sealed their lips, his mind completely taken off of his work. He kissed Dean thoroughly, slipping his tongue into Dean’s mouth. Dean hummed with satisfaction and shifted, keeping their lips locked as he guided Castiel to the grass and laid on top of him. Castiel went down easily.</p><p>In the heat of the day, Dean’s body should have created some discomfort, but it instead made Castiel forget about summer entirely. He was far too focused on the curling heat in his lower abdomen, made more prevalent each time Dean’s body shifted.</p><p>Dean’s hips were wedged between Castiel’s thighs, his weight sturdy and strong, his fingers in Castiel’s hair, and his tongue rolling languidly against Castiel’s. The blades of grass that Castiel was laying on tickled his neck. He fisted at the back of Dean’s shirt.</p><p>Slowly, he dragged his hand lower to the dip of Dean’s spine, where his shirt was riding up. He splayed his palm on the warm skin there, relishing in the sound it elicited. Dean lowered one arm to trail his fingers down Castiel’s ribs, down his hip, and up his thigh to the bend in his knee. Castiel shuddered the whole way. He tightened his thighs against Dean, boxing him in.</p><p>Castiel wanted to continue exploring Dean’s body. He ached for it. Each kiss was heaven, every touch damning. Greedily, it wasn’t enough.</p><p>Dean gave a puff of laughter and tilted his head away, despite Castiel’s attempt to chase his lips. “What the hell are you thinking about?” he teased, voice low and rough. “You shouldn’t be distracted while I’m kissing you! I’ll get offended.”</p><p>“I’m thinking about <em>you</em>,” Castiel assured him, even though he knew it would set a cocky smirk to Dean’s slick mouth.</p><p>“That right? What specifically?”</p><p>“I forget,” Castiel said, scrunching his brow. “Perhaps you should kiss me again and I’ll remember.”</p><p>Dean hummed and dipped back down, kissing him eagerly.</p><p>Castiel wondered how Dean might react if he started striping off his clothes. He thought the response would be pleasant, and hopefully enthusiastic. He recalled the way Dean had been quick to get Castiel out of his shirt that night weeks ago, before they’d been interrupted. Since then, Castiel had hardly been able to think of anything else apart from the slide of Dean’s bare skin against his.</p><p>And, since then, he waited for Dean to initiate it again. He got the feeling that Dean was waiting for Castiel to do the very same.</p><p>Though, Castiel wasn’t certain he’d want to have relations with Dean for the first time while the grass was prickling his skin. Besides, it would be rushed. Dean had to get back to work.</p><p>Castiel pulled away reluctantly. “You need to go before you’re missed.”</p><p>Dean grunted at the reminder. “Why, you’re not gonna miss me?”</p><p>“I’ll miss you more if you get fired.” Because Dean had been wrong before: he didn’t have job security. Not completely. “Not even I can make an excuse to keep on an employee who doesn’t do his job.”</p><p>“I do my job!”</p><p>Castiel pinched his brow.</p><p>“Shut up. Yes, I do,” Dean maintained. And Castiel couldn’t find the energy to argue with him when Dean ran his thumb along the bridge of Castiel’s nose to smooth out the lines. Castiel secretly loved when he did that. It was a tender gesture.</p><p>“Fine,” Dean groaned. He picked himself up off of Castiel, and Castiel instantly regretted saying anything.</p><p>He sat up and watched Dean straighten himself out by tucking his shirt back into his waistband and snapping his suspenders back on. Meanwhile, Dean asked, “You gonna stick around here?”</p><p>“For a while,” Castiel said, peering around the garden. He still had fifty more pages to read, but he wanted to get inside and practice the song he’d been working on while Dean was still working. He usually didn’t mind Dean watching him, but this was… different.</p><p>Though, he wasn’t opposed to seeing Dean after that. Maybe, that night, they could pick up where they left off.</p><p>Maybe they could pick up where they’d left off weeks ago.</p><p>Castiel really wished they hadn’t been interrupted, because then he wouldn’t have to even consider broaching the conversation. It didn’t feel decent to say aloud. But he needed Dean to know that he was willing, and more than ready, and wondering why they weren’t having sex that very moment.</p><p>The top layer of his skin buzzed with embarrassment as he got to his feet, and he considered not saying anything at all. But then Dean went over to the stream and splashed some water on his face, and the droplets winked in the light as they slid off his nose and chin and dripped onto the front of his shirt. And, yes, Castiel had to say something immediately. He thought he might burst if didn’t. It was a new feeling, an intense feeling. No one had ever rendered him that way before.</p><p>“Dean,” he began, and then his throat closed up.</p><p>Dean wiped the excess water from his brow with the back of his arm and sniffed. “Yeah?”</p><p>Castiel suddenly couldn’t look at him head on. Instead, he cast his eyes to the grass. “I was… wondering. Tonight. If you… Were you planning on… staying… with me?”</p><p>Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Dean shrug. “Is that an invitation?” He sounded arrogant.</p><p>Castiel rolled his eyes. “You don’t need an invitation.”</p><p>“Okay,” Dean said, and it could have been a question. A beat passed before he prompted, “I guess. Why?”</p><p>There was a rock in Castiel’s esophagus. He tried to swallow it down, but it remained lodged. He could feel Dean’s stare turn questioning, and Castiel didn’t know why he was suddenly so nervous. After all, he didn’t think Dean regretted their false start. He’d say yes.</p><p>Maybe.</p><p>God willing.</p><p>Castiel rubbed at the heated skin on the back of his neck, and he realized it was a habit he’d picked up from Dean. “Well,” he said, trying and failing to sound natural. “I was hoping—if you’re not opposed—that we might…” This was humiliating. He forced himself to look at Dean, and that only made it worse because Dean was staring at him like he’d lost his mind. “Be intimate.”</p><p>There was a pause. The words must have taken a moment to sink in, but when they did, Dean’s expression shifted a few times. He raised his brows and turned his head slightly, as though he were unsure he heard Castiel correctly. Then, something dawned in his eyes. His stance became a little looser, an impish, slanted grin forming. There was a twinkle in his eyes.</p><p>Castiel hated him.</p><p>“Intimate, huh?” Dean asked, sucking on his teeth.</p><p>Castiel almost told him to forget it.</p><p>“Just to be clear: we’re talking sex, right?” Dean confirmed.</p><p>“Yes,” Castiel told him with a nod. “If… you’d like.”</p><p>Dean came a little closer, a swagger in his step. “Gosh, I dunno, Cas. No one’s ever asked me this far in advance. Lemme think about that.” He thought about it for a millisecond. “Uh, yeah! Definitely.”</p><p>Castiel didn’t know why he was relieved. “Excellent.”</p><p>“Dandy. Can’t wait,” Dean teased. He closed the space between them and pecked a kiss to Castiel’s lips. “There’s a little teaser for you.” He winked.</p><p>Castiel genuinely hated him. And he felt the urge to give Dean a taste of his own medicine.</p><p>Quickly, he grabbed the back of Dean’s neck and pulled him in, crashing their lips together. Castiel licked his tongue along the seam of Dean’s lips until Dean parted them. He kissed Dean deeply, fervently, and then pulled away. Dean’s eyes were still closed, and he swayed slightly.</p><p>“A teaser,” Castiel told him.</p><p>Dean’s eyes fluttered open. He cleared his throat, dumbfounded. “Uh—I, uh—” He cleared his throat again. “Good. Yeah. Can’t, uh…” Castiel didn’t think he’d ever seen Dean turn so pink. “Can’t wait.”</p><p>He started walking backward. “So, tonight?”</p><p>Castiel nodded. “Yes.”</p><p>“I’ll, uh… I’ll see you… yeah.” Dean was smiling. He spun around on his heels and walked into the trees.</p><p>Now that he was alone, Castiel let his relief line his body. He bit down on his lower lip in anticipation.</p><p>Just before Dean disappeared completely, he called, “Don’t get started without me!”</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p> </p><p>Castiel wasn’t nervous. His stomach was aflutter and it hurt to swallow at certain points throughout the day, but he wasn’t nervous. He soaked for a long time in the bath after dinner, and he’d used the bar of honey soap he usually saved for special occasions—but now he was wondering if staying in the water for too long was a bad idea. Flexing his palm in front of his face, he realized his fingers were still wrinkled and bleached. Would that make a difference for Dean? Castiel wanted Dean to enjoy this experience.</p><p>He let his hand fall back down to his lap. He sat in the armchair next to the window of his bedroom, and he could still see the lantern flickering in Dean’s apartment from the vantage point. Not that he was looking. He was simply… wondering when Dean would arrive. They hadn’t set a time. Perhaps he should have been more specific. He’d just assumed Dean would arrive after the rest of the house had gone to sleep.</p><p>Castiel grunted in frustration. He got out of his chair, too overcome by the roiling in his gut to sit still. His bed was made, and he’d drawn the canopy. Maybe there was something he could do while he waited—something that would make Dean more comfortable.</p><p>He thought back to the previous time he’d slept with someone. There’d been a man in one of his music courses at the college. Inias. He’d played the violin beautifully, and he’d often make advances on Castiel after a lesson. For Castiel’s part, he told himself he’d felt desire, but it was more like curiosity. It was hope. It was a rebellion.</p><p>In truth, the sex had made him feel cold. He didn’t assume Inias had a very good time, either. The night had been awkward. Afterward, Castiel hadn’t been able to look anyone in the eye for nearly a week. The last he heard, Inias was now ordained and living in Quincy.</p><p>That had been his first and last time.</p><p>He tried to tell himself this would be different. Dean wasn’t a classmate that he barely knew. Dean was… He was <em>Dean</em>.</p><p>And he was late.</p><p>Castiel gave a grunt of frustration and crossed back to the window. The grounds were dark and silent but for the distant chirp on insects in the grass. Dean’s light was still on.</p><p>“Damn it,” Castiel hissed. At this rate, he’d be waiting forever on Dean to show up.</p><p>Just as he was about to give up, there was a gentle rapping at his door. Castiel looked over his shoulder, heart suddenly in his throat.</p><p>“Cas?” Dean whispered through the wood. Castiel dropped his shoulders, relieved. “It’s me. Open up.”</p><p>“I’m… I’ll be right there,” Castiel told him, not wanting to seem too eager. He’d imagined this night so many times before: kissing Dean, mapping out his body, reveling in every way they brought each other pleasure. Castiel didn’t want Dean to know he was impatient.</p><p>He went to the mirror, quickly checking to make sure his hair was in place and his tie was straight. He tried to ignore the fact that he looked pale. Hopefully, Dean wouldn’t notice.</p><p>Pushing his shoulders back, he made for the door, opening it a crack. Dean was on the other side, arms clasped behind his back, shrouded in the darkness of the hall. He gave a handsome smile.</p><p>“You’re late,” Castiel told him.</p><p>Dean frowned, rolling his eyes. “Didn’t know we were on the clock.” He revealed his hands from behind his back, and clutched in one fist was a crude bouquet of red roses and white lilies from the garden. “Plus, wanted to surprise you with these.”</p><p>Castiel softened somewhat. He wouldn’t admit aloud how charming Dean was. “Thank you,” he said, accepting the flowers. “Please, come in.”</p><p>As he brought the flowers to the dresser and laid them down on top next to the lit candles, Dean stepped inside and closed the door gently behind him. He wasn’t in the same clothes he’d worn earlier in the day. These seemed fresh, and his hair looked soft and clean. There wasn’t any dirt on his cheeks.</p><p>“Why didn’t you come through the balcony?” Castiel asked. Perhaps he was stalling.</p><p>Dean scoffed, as if such a thing was unthinkable, as if that wasn’t his usual method. “What, and get all sweaty and gross?”</p><p>Castiel supposed he appreciated Dean’s thoughtfulness.</p><p>“So, uh—” Dean said, looking around the room. He didn’t appear to know how to initiate this either, and Castiel was grateful he wasn’t alone in that. A forced grin cracked his face, and he joked, “Where do you want me?”</p><p>“I, um…” Maybe this was a bad idea. What if this ended like it did with Inias? What if Castiel scared Dean away? What if he closed himself off to the world, to Dean, again? He didn’t want that. He wanted Dean to stay. He wanted this to be their beginning, not their end. “I don’t…” Already, he couldn’t look at Dean.</p><p>“Cas.” There was a pause. Dean paced up to him slowly, until he was hovering close. Castiel looked down at their shoes. He watched as Dean lifted his arms, sliding his palms to Castiel’s jaw. Castiel breathed out, some of the tension leaving his body. Dean’s hands were warm, firm. He smelled clean, and Castiel knew this meant something to him, as well.</p><p>When he looked up, Dean’s face was gilded by the golden light of the candles. And he knew, whatever happened next, Dean would be with him.</p><p>He placed his hands on Dean’s shoulders, and they met in the middle. The kiss was slow at first—a gentle push and pull, the taste of Dean’s tongue against Castiel’s. Dean’s thumbs brushed Castiel’s cheekbones, and whatever apprehension left over in Castiel’s gut ebbed away. He deepened the kiss, eager for more. When Dean pulled away, he dragged Castiel’s bottom lips between his teeth.</p><p>Castiel’s eyes opened to him, sweeping across the glistening of Dean’s mouth and the flush in his cheeks. His eyes were dark, the green of them swallowed up, and Castiel was fascinated by them. While Dean looked back, his hands moved down Castiel’s throat. He undid Castiel’s tie, then set in on the buttons of his shirt.</p><p>Castiel did the same for Dean, his fingers moving down his front, trying not to fumble with the buttons. There was air in Castiel’s throat, and he wasn’t certain why it burst out in a breath of laughter. But Dean chuckled, too, low and rough, and it was the sweetest sound Castiel had ever heard. It filled his chest like a hot air balloon.</p><p>When their shirts were discarded, Castiel took a moment to admire Dean’s chest up close. His tattoo was stark on his skin, and it sat among a mass of freckles. Castiel wanted to count every one. He touched Dean’s ribs, watching the way his skin instantly bumped and his spine rocked. Dean had once told him he had cold hands. “Apologies,” Castiel said, hardly able to get the word out.</p><p>Dean blanketed the back of Castiel’s hands with his own. “Not that kinda shiver, sweetheart,” he said. “But I’ll warm you up.”</p><p>Castiel’s eyes flickered up to him. Dean’s words played over and over in his mind. <em>Sweetheart</em>. Castiel couldn’t speak.</p><p>He turned them around, pushing him against the dresser. The contents inside thumped. Dean had let out a whooping sound of surprise. “I’m not sweet,” Castiel told him, crowding in. His lips brushed Dean’s. He pressed his hands more firmly into Dean’s ribs.</p><p>“Yeah, you are,” Dean teased. “With your piano music and your photographs.” He nuzzled their noses together gently. “And you taste like pomegranates.”</p><p>It sent a thrill through Castiel, knowing Dean took the time to think of such things regarding him. “You taste like tobacco,” Castiel told him, touching his chest to Dean’s. The contact sent his head spinning. Castiel’s leg slotted between Dean’s, and he could feel Dean burgeoning erection through his trousers. It made Castiel’s breath snag. Arousal prickled at him, drawing him even closer to Dean.</p><p>He kissed Dean’s neck. “And earth.” And his collarbone. “And… and…” Castiel breathed in the scent lifting off Dean’s skin. Dean’s exhales were coming out choppy, his chest rising and falling rapidly. All of Castiel’s senses were filled with him. There was nothing else. “<em>Dean</em>.”</p><p>Dean nudged his head lower, swiftly catching Castiel’s lips. They kept kissing, kept touching, as they stumbled toward the bed. The canopy’s curtains tripped them up, and Dean broke away from him in a burst of laughter. “Fuckin’ things,” he said, slapping them away. Castiel was delirious, giddy. Pressure was burning in his eyes, swelling in his chest. His heart was thumping rhythmically in his chest as if at last, <em>at last</em>, it was given a reason to beat. His breaths sounded wet.</p><p>Dean laid down against the pillows, Castiel on top of him. Their bodies rocked and swayed against each other. Castiel drummed his fingers on Dean’s sides, exploring the straights and valleys of his body. His palm skimmed Dean’s nipple, and Dean shuddered again. Castiel committed that to memory.</p><p>He also took note, when he kissed along Dean’s jaw and sucked on the skin beneath his ear, of the way Dean moaned. He worked on the spot for a while, until Dean’s fingers were scrambling at his back and his legs were wrapped around Castiel’s waist and his body was pulsing and bucking.</p><p>Castiel pushed up, supporting himself with his arms. Dean looked up at him, brow lined with heat, lips parted and bruised as he sucked in air, and the spot Castiel had been teasing red and slick. He was stunning. And Castiel could hardly comprehend that he could have this. Have Dean.</p><p>Dean reached up, holding his hand to the side of Castiel’s face. Castiel smiled, pressing a kiss to the heel of his palm before leaning into the touch. “Think we can take our pants off now?” Dean asked, and it might as well have been the most romantic thing Castiel had ever heard.</p><p>“I believe it’s time,” he agreed.</p><p>He sat back, and Dean shimmed out from under him. Castiel pulled off his shoes and socks first, letting them fall off the bed and roll to the other side of the curtain. He worked on unbuttoning his trousers next.</p><p>Dean swatted at the curtain, trying to open it to toss his garments out. “Why do you have this stupid thing? What, a whole wing of the house isn’t private enough?” Grinning, he added, “You trying to preserve my modesty, Cas?”</p><p>“If you had any, perhaps I would.” He managed to get out of his pants, but it wasn’t very graceful. But Dean hadn’t been, either.</p><p>Dean gave a mock-offended sound. “Hey!”</p><p>Castiel tossed the trousers to the side and turned back to Dean. He had freckles on his thighs, too. The bow of his legs was less pronounced while he was laying back against the pillows, but that was hardly where Castiel’s gaze fell anyway. He knew he was staring at Dean’s dick, but he couldn’t help himself. The sight of it made his mouth go dry, and caused his body to ache. He was only slightly aware of Dean blushing under his eyes.</p><p>“You’re being pretty quiet there, Cas. Not very reassuring,” Dean said, suddenly shy. Cas’ eyes moved back to his face. He didn’t understand Dean’s coyness, but it made him have to fight back a smile.</p><p>“Allow me to reassure you,” he said. He climbed back up Dean’s body and pressed a kiss to his lips. Dean opened up to him at once. He leaned back on his elbows, then laid flat on the bed. Castiel chased after him. Dean’s arms wrapped around his back, and a rush of blood went to Castiel’s head suddenly. Before he knew what had happened, his back was on the mattress, and Dean was on top of him.</p><p>Dean slotted their hips together and slowly rolled his body into Castiel’s. Castiel had to fight for air. His mouth hung open, eyes skewed shut against the tantalizing friction Dean was creating. He propped his knees up on Dean’s sides, allowing for their bodies to become closer, for their erections to slide together.</p><p>“Cas,” Dean breathed out.</p><p>Castiel’s skin felt overheated in the places where Dean stroked him, palms open. Adrenaline coursed through him, running along every inch of his veins, chasing Dean’s hands. It was almost too much, all the different sensations. Like waking up from a dream, gasping in that first breath of the day, eyes opening to the light.</p><p>His fingers explored Dean’s back—the dips on his muscles, the knobs of his spine. He moved lower to Dean’s ass, flattening his palms there and pulling Dean in closer, deepening the thrust of his hips.</p><p>Then, Dean set in on Castiel’s torso. He nipped and sucked at his clavicle, tongued at his chest. Castiel got lost in the feeling. His skin sang under Dean’s touch; he’d never been so in tune with body. Dean took his time, seemingly determined to drag his lips along every inch of skin Castiel had. He worked his way down to his stomach, which tickled a little, and then to his hips.</p><p>A moan punched out of Castiel when Dean hit a certain spot along the bend of his hipbone. It wasn’t something Castiel expected. He blinked, lifting his head to look at Dean. Dean looked up, a sideways smirk on his face, eyes alight. “There, huh?”</p><p>He mouthed at the spot again. Castiel laid flat on the bed, gasping up at the canopy. He writhed the longer Dean kept up his ministrations, and Dean had to hold Castiel’s hips to keep him steady. He kissed and sucked on the spot until it was bruised. Castiel fisted at the covers beneath him. His toes were curled and tensed. He felt like a raging fire.</p><p>“There!” Dean said proudly, pulling away. Castiel had to catch his breath before he could look at him again. His mind swam. He could feel his heartbeat in every pulse point on his body—and in his hip. It was mostly in his dick.</p><p>The skin was red, a fresh bruise there. Castiel touched the tender skin reverently. Dean had marked him. That bruise would be there for days. Castiel wanted more of Dean’s marks on his body, and he wanted to put his own on Dean. He wanted Dean to look at them later, when he was alone, and think of Castiel. And, when they faded, he wanted to take Dean to bed and mark him again.</p><p>Castiel brushed his fingers through Dean’s hair. “Am I yours now?”</p><p>The smile faded from Dean’s face, turning into something awestruck and hesitant. “If you want,” he said, like he was scared to ask.</p><p>How could he be? How could Castiel want anything else?</p><p>Castiel nodded, and the happiness returned to Dean’s face, lighting him up from the inside. “In that case…” He set back to work, kissing down lower. He hooked Castiel’s legs over his shoulders, then turned his head to nip at Castiel’s inner thighs. The stubble on his cheek kept brushing against Castiel’s erection. He jumped every time, fingers curling tighter into Dean’s hair.</p><p>He closed his eyes, trying to keep his breath in his anticipation. His blood rushed in his ears. Every muscle in his body was tense. He buzzed with excitement.</p><p>And then Dean nosed at his dick. Castiel groaned, squeezing his eyes tighter. He focused on the way Dean teased him with his lips and tongue, with puffs of hot breath. It was maddening. “<em>Dean</em>,” he gritted out. He couldn’t take it anymore.</p><p>Dean chuckled darkly. “Alright, alright.”</p><p>His knees buckled at the slow slide of Dean’s mouth enveloping him. At Dean wrapping a fist around the base of the shaft and twisting. At <em>Dean</em>. He dug his heels into Dean’s back, gripped his hair tightly. Somehow, he had enough sense to open his eyes, to look down to see Dean’s lips stretched around him. He breathed in, and oxygen had never tasted so sweet. He had to fall back down against the pillows to gasp and heave.</p><p>And Dean took him apart. All his composure, all his loneliness, the hollow in his chest that he didn’t even know had been there before Dean… He could feel it all slipping, along with whatever hope he had that, one day, he’d settle into the life he was expected to live. That he’d see this house as more than a prison. That he’d find peace in the plan that had been laid out for him. Dean dismantled it from the inside out. If he couldn’t be with Dean, he’d rather have no life at all.</p><p>He could feel himself slipping, too, teetering further and further, edging ever-closer to the end of his stamina. His mind was blank but for Dean’s name, and the air was clouded with humidity and the scent of sweat and <em>Dean</em>.</p><p>“Dean,” he realized he was saying, over and over. He felt drunk. His breaths were tearing out of him like sobs.</p><p>Urgently: “Dean—I—” There was nothing else. He couldn’t speak.</p><p>Dean hummed, the reverberations spreading through Castiel’s body. And then he was overcome. Pleasure bled through him, shooting out to his fingers and toes, rocking his spine, tensing his brow. Dean worked him through it, his cheeks hollowed, his thumb pressing on the bruise he’d laid into Castiel’s hip.</p><p>When Castiel’s thoughts caught up to him, he found himself breathless again. He blinked upward. Dean pulled off of him, and Castiel was already a moment away from inviting him back into his bed tomorrow night. And the next night. Forever.</p><p>Dean laid down next to him on his stomach. He wiped his mouth inelegantly with the back of his wrist. His expression was beaming, face red. Castiel turned his head on the pillow to take Dean in. He found himself smiling, too, bigger than he had in ages.</p><p>“Now, see, that looks good on you,” Dean said, pointing at Castiel’s mouth.</p><p>Castiel didn’t even try to contain a jubilant laugh. “Well, you’ve found a certain way to see it.”</p><p>Dean crowded into him. “Guess I did.” They kissed lazily, Castiel tasting himself on Dean’s tongue. Dean let out short, dark noises from his throat. When he rolled into Castiel, his dick poked not so subtly into Castiel’s thigh.</p><p>“I understand,” Castiel said into the kiss. He could feel Dean’s mouth curve into a grin. He wrapped his arms around Dean and pulled Dean on top of him. Dean straddled his lap, sitting back. Castiel looked up at him, palming at Dean’s thighs, and he calculated how to best deal with him.</p><p>He picked himself up, his eyes level with Dean’s chin. He flattened his palms against Dean’s chest, moving them in circles, rounding one up to Dean’s shoulder. His other traveled up Dean’s throat, and he could feel Dean’s Adam’s apple bob. Dean looked down at him, only trust and willingness plain on his face.</p><p>Castiel tapped two fingers against Dean’s bottom lip. Dean opened his mouth, taking the fingers in. Castiel shivered slightly in the way Dean sucked on them like he’d done with his dick. Dean wrapped his tongue around them, teasing him, eyes fixed on Castiel’s. When Castiel drew them away, Dean chased them slightly, and Castiel had to tame the way his heart leapt at that.</p><p>He rounded his hands to Dean’s back and trailed slowly down his spine, to his ass. Dean sat up straighter, pulling in a breath. Castiel tried to keep his movements slow, but he couldn’t deny he was eager—eager to watch the pleasure play on Dean’s face, eager to unwind him like Dean had done to him.</p><p>He hooked one finger inside Dean. Dean jumped, inhaling sharply. His hands flew to Castiel’s chest, and for a moment, Castiel thought he’d done something wrong. “Dean?” he asked. Dean’s eyes were closed tight. “Do you… want me to stop?”</p><p>Dean paused for a moment. He shook his head. “No. No… Keep—keep going, Cas.”</p><p>Castiel did as he was told. He made sure to take his time, to open Dean up properly. Dean’s eyes were still closed, brows lined in what Castiel hoped wasn’t discomfort. But then Dean began making those sounds again—the choppy, needy ones. The ones that meant he was enjoying it. Confidence built up in Castiel at that. When he thought Dean was ready, he worked in his other finger.</p><p>Dean gritted his teeth, his grip tightening on Castiel. Castiel moved his other hand to the small of Dean’s back to support him. “I’ve got you,” he said. Dean didn’t answer. He kept moaning and groaning, and Castiel didn’t even want to blink. He was enraptured by the way Dean’s face shifted, tensing and relaxing. Dean licked his lips, pulled them between his teeth. Castiel tried to think of anything he’d ever laid eyes on that held more beauty. He came up short.</p><p>He took his hand off Dean’s back and placed it on his belly. He traveled downward, the muscles in Dean’s stomach jumping in his wake. Castiel wrapped his hand around Dean’s erection, thumbing at the moisture building on the head. Dean hummed and grunted. He rocked his body into Castiel’s fist, and back into Castiel’s fingers.</p><p>While Castiel worked him into a rhythm, he kept his gaze fixed on Dean, not wanting to miss a single thing. But something <em>was</em> missing. Something important.</p><p>“Dean,” he whispered. “Open your eyes. Please.”</p><p>For a moment, it looked like Dean hadn’t heard him, or he didn’t want to comply. But then his eyes fluttered open. They appeared out of focus at first, but then they latched onto Castiel’s holding his gaze. He’d never seen Dean so open and vulnerable before. Castiel almost wanted to thank Dean for trusting him.</p><p>Castiel slid his fingers deeper into Dean, using the momentum from Dean’s thrusts. Dean let out a loud sound, followed by, “Fuck! Cas—That—Do that!” Castiel didn’t know that he’d done, but he tried it again. He tightened his fist around Dean, too, pumping him faster.</p><p>When Dean’s eyes closed again, Castiel only had to say, “<em>Dean</em>.” And then they were open. Castiel stared into them, watching the emotion flashing across them. He felt Dean’s body coiling. Dean dug his fingernails into Castiel’s shoulder blades.</p><p>“Cas—Sonofa—”</p><p>Dean’s dick pulsed in Castiel’s hand. As he spilled out, his body went taut. Ropes of come were on Castiel’s chest and stomach, and he couldn’t bring himself to care. Because Dean’s breath hitched when he came, and his forehead knitted together, and his pupils expanded even wider—and now Castiel had that information stored away.</p><p>Dean exhaled, posture going slack. He dipped forward, resting his forehead on Castiel’s shoulder. Castiel listened to him breathe. He held him through it.</p><p>It took him a moment to realize Dean was laughing. His shoulders rumbled with it. Castiel didn’t know what the joke was. He watched Dean sit back again. “Those fuckin’ fingers,” Dean laughed. He grabbed Castiel’s arm and pressed his lips to Castiel’s inner wrist.</p><p>Castiel’s eyes dragged up and down his face, elation blooming in his chest. And he could have sworn the stars hung in the sky were only mere replications of the freckles on Dean’s skin.</p><p>Dean looked down, making a face. “Ew. Hang on.” He slid off Castiel and opened the curtain slightly, hanging off the bed in search of something. Castiel looked down at his body, placing his hand in the sticky come on his torso. Dean came back, a shirt in hand, and mopped it up roughly.</p><p>“That’s my shirt,” Castiel told him, and he probably should have been more frustrated about that fact.</p><p>“You have others,” Dean said.</p><p>Of course, he had others. That wasn’t the issue. “Someone else launders my clothes.”</p><p>“Wow, that’s gonna be real awkward for you to explain away then.” Dean shot him an indolent smirk and tossed the shirt away. Castiel rolled his eyes, but there was no heat to it. He was too blissed out, too exhausted. Too happy.</p><p>He was happy.</p><p>He laid back down on the pillows. Dean laid next to him, pulling out the covers from beneath him to lay under, appearing to settle in for the night. Castiel got under the blankets, too, and rolled to his side, facing Dean. Dean mirrored his position.</p><p>Dean’s eyes glistened in the low light. They moved back and forth dreamily, up and down Castiel’s expression. Castiel’s gaze traced the curves of Dean’s face.</p><p>“You’re sure about this, right?” Dean asked. Castiel’s eyes moved back to his. He didn’t understand the question. “And… me?” Dean’s voice was halting, afraid of the answer.</p><p>Castiel inhaled deeply through his nose. He couldn’t lie to Dean. “No.”</p><p>Dean scoffed. “Oh, okay then. That was quick.” His humor barely masked the hurt on his face.</p><p>“Dean,” Castiel said, reaching for him. He placed his hand on Dean’s shoulder. He tried to find a way to make Dean understand. He wasn’t certain there were words—or maybe there were. But he couldn’t say them; even now, even here.</p><p><em>There is no future without you in it</em>.</p><p>“I don’t know what will happen next for… for me.”</p><p>
  <em>I will be with you and no one else.</em>
</p><p>“But I am sure about you, if nothing else.”</p><p><em>If they try to drag me away, I will find my way back to you in the dark if I must</em>.</p><p>Dean’s throat clicked when he swallowed. He pushed a low-wattage, self-deprecating smile. “You might wanna rethink that.”</p><p>Castiel saw through the humor. He furrowed his brow, lifted his head up, and he wasn’t certain why a rush of irritation overcame him. Why couldn’t Dean see himself for who he truly was? Why couldn’t he understand? “Why would you say that?”</p><p>Dean’s eyes dropped. “No, you just… Forget it. I was kidding.” He couldn’t have been kidding. Castiel narrowed his eyes at Dean, trying to decipher what went on his mind.</p><p>Dean opened his mouth again. Hesitantly, he said, “You just might feel different if you had the whole story.”</p><p>“The whole story?” Castiel echoed, shaking his head. “What <em>story</em>, Dean?”</p><p>Dean’s eyes were wide, something defenseless naked in them. But then he blinked, averting his gaze. “Forget it.” He rolled onto his back.</p><p>Was it Dean’s loss of status? Castiel didn’t care what had caused Dean’s family to lose their money. Castiel didn’t care if Dean was staff. Perhaps society didn’t hold someone like Dean in high regard but, to Castiel, there was no one above him.</p><p>Or was it the war? He’d been a soldier, and he also had a kind heart. Such things were difficult when they coexisted. But that wasn’t Dean’s fault. All it meant was that he was noble. He was heroic. He was <em>good</em>.</p><p>Castiel remained staring at him, trying to fathom Dean out. His questions sat on the tip of his tongue, and he wanted to ask them. He wanted Dean to tell him everything. But it wasn’t what Dean needed at the moment. Dean needed to know that there could never be a part of him Castiel wouldn’t love. “Dean,” he said, drawing closer to him. He put his arm over Dean and pressed their bodies together. “Whatever… whatever it is… It won’t change my mind. I know that much about myself.”</p><p>Dean closed his eyes.</p><p><em>If we live for a thousand years, I will never think differently of you</em>.</p><p>Castiel didn’t know how to say that out loud. Instead, he pressed a kiss to the corner of Dean’s lips. Hovering there, he said softly, “Do me the courtesy of allowing me time to prove it, Mr. Wesson.”</p><p>He’d happily spend the rest of his life trying to prove his devotion, the rest of his life to earn Dean’s love.</p><p>Dean turned into him, capturing his mouth. When the kiss broke, Dean said, “Sweetheart.”</p><p>Castiel felt warm all over—warm and sleepy. He sighed, resting his head on Dean's shoulder. Dean slid his arm beneath Castiel, pulling their bodies closer together. Castiel watched his chest rise and fall in breaths. He listened to the drumbeat of Dean’s heart; his own echoed it.</p><p>Before long, it lulled him to sleep.</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p> </p><p>They were in the waning days of summer, just before the chill of autumn overcame the world. The leaves were still full and resplendent on the dense tree line. The flowers were all in bloom, and small beetles climbed their stalks. Bees hummed as they circled drunkenly through the air. Birds sang sweetly on their high perches. Their music mixed with the galloping of hooves on the grass of the rolling hills, of the whoops of laughter Gabriel let loose every time his horse took the lead.</p><p>Balthazar was close on his tail, his mare kicking up chunks of sod and grass in its wake. Castiel was technically a part of the race, but his thoughts strayed far from winning. He was just glad to be out on that clear morning, where the vibrant green earth met the cloudless blue at the far horizon. He wished Dean had been able to share this carefree, innocently-spent time with him.</p><p>And he also wished to take part in other, less public activities with Dean. They’d managed to steal swaths of time together by the light of the moon, but Castiel thought there were still parts of Dean’s body he’d yet to map out. Like an uranographer, he enthusiastically explored each patch of endless, speckled skin; he charted the lines and curves of Dean’s body in hopes committing the shape of him to the night sky, hung beside the likes of Orion and Perseus, so that the whole of humanity could cherish Dean for eternity—but never touch him like Castiel could.</p><p>Gabriel reached the tree they’d designated as the finish line first. His cheeks were red with exertion and his grin was wide with victory as he circled his horse around the thick truck. “Ha! Beat that!” he called.</p><p>Castiel slowed his mount to a stop beside Balthazar, who pulled a petulant face, ever the sore loser. “You had a head start and you know it.”</p><p>“Keep telling yourself that,” Gabriel quipped. He did one last lap before steering his horse’s reins toward the two of them.</p><p>“Fine. Best two out of three,” Balthazar posed. “What say you, Cas?”</p><p>In truth, Castiel hadn’t really been listening until he heard his name. He’d been too busy squinting at a pair of hummingbirds fluttering playfully around each other in the near distance. Over the hills, a horn blared from the nearby railroad.</p><p>“I believe Gabriel is the victor,” he said fairly.</p><p>“<em>Thank</em> you,” Gabriel answered pointedly as Balthazar spoke over him.</p><p>“We each bet ten dollars on this race. Are you really comfortable paying that to a cheater?”</p><p>Castiel rolled his eyes despite the humor he felt. “If you don’t like it, maybe find entertainment somewhere other than gambling.”</p><p>Gabriel leaned forward, crossing his elbows over the horn of his saddle. “Well, in Bal’s defense, entertainment’s a little hard to come by ever since you Novaks stopped putting on events.”</p><p>“Precisely!” Balthazar agreed wholeheartedly. “When <em>is</em> the next ball? You’re keeping the entire town in suspense.”</p><p>In Castiel’s opinion, the entire town could remain that way. He was happy to never host or attend another ball for as long as he lived. “Not any time soon,” he answered apologetically, even though he didn’t feel sorry in the slightest.</p><p>Both of his friends tossed their heads back in groans.</p><p>“<em>No</em>!” Balthazar complained, stretching out the word into several syllables.</p><p>“Come on!” Gabriel moaned. “Your house is the best for them! Why would your dad stop having them before he found you a—” He cut himself off, abruptly sitting up straight. There was something like mischief in his eyes, and Castiel didn’t know why. He didn’t like it, either. “Hold on. Did you find somebody to marry?”</p><p>Castiel froze, feeling his eyes widen. He tried to correct himself by shuttering his expression, but it came too late.</p><p>Gabriel laughed out a loud, mocking, “<em>Ooh-whoo</em>! You did!”</p><p>“You did <em>not</em>,” Balthazar chimed in severely. He barely blinked as he studied Castiel. Castiel tried to duck his head against the scrutiny. He needed to hide the sudden squirming in his gut before they saw the truth.</p><p>“No,” Castiel told them at once, and it wasn’t a lie. He’d found someone, yes, but it wasn’t as if he and Dean could ever marry.</p><p>However, his denial only strengthened his friends’ resolve.</p><p>“Oh my <em>word</em>! You found someone!” Balthazar shouted, and Castiel couldn’t tell if he was happy about it or dreading the thought of it.</p><p>“I did not—”</p><p>“Look at him. He’s blushing,” Gabriel said, pointing. It was demeaning—but not nearly as irritating as what he said next: “I’ve never seen you blush! I didn’t even think you were capable of it.”</p><p>“Wait, now that he mentions it,” Balthazar added, holding up a finger like he had an important point to make, “you <em>haven’t</em> quite been yourself recently. You’re much more agreeable. And, clearly, you’ve been working on your physique. Oh, dear.” He was grinning, catlike, now. “Our Cassie has fallen in love. You fool!” He reached over, boxing Castiel teasingly on the ear before Castiel could duck out of the way. “What on earth would you do that for?”</p><p>Annoyed, Castiel touched the side of his face, soothing the stinging skin. However, despite himself, his frustration was ebbing away and cheerfulness was flooding in. It almost felt normal, his friends discovering this. And they appeared supportive. He wasn’t certain they would be if they knew the truth, however, but it was nice to imagine.</p><p>“I’m serious,” Balthazar kept on. “What happened to the two of us being bachelors forever? Gabriel’s already abandoned that notion! Now I’m to accept you have, too?”</p><p>“Hey, not our fault people actually wanna be with us,” Gabriel said, hands held up in faux-surrender. He was making light of his marriage, but Castiel often saw the obvious twinkling in his eyes whenever Kali was mentioned.</p><p>Castiel looked between them, brow raised and trying and failing to hold back as smile as to not give them the satisfaction.</p><p>And why <em>shouldn’t</em> this be normal? They were his oldest and truest friends. He should be allowed to speak his mind around them.</p><p>“Alright,” he yielded, deciding to be brazen. “There is someone.” But that was as far as he’d go. Dean’s safety meant more to him than his friends knowing of their relationship. And besides, perhaps there was a part of Castiel that wished to keep the world at bay, to covet Dean for himself alone. Still, even to speak of Dean in a vague, approximate way was exhilarating.</p><p>Both men let out delighted sounds, and Gabriel hollered, “I <em>knew</em> it! So? Tell us! Who is she?”</p><p>“None of your concern.”</p><p>“That’s not fair!” Balthazar argued. “We should know the name of the woman we’re losing you to.”</p><p>Castiel slid his eyes to him in a warning, but there was no heat behind it.</p><p>“Eh, I wouldn’t worry too much,” Gabriel said with a wave of his hand. His light eyes were full of glee. “Look at his face. My guess? We’ll be hearing wedding bells in no time.” He jerked at his reins, wheeling his horse around. “Being in love looks good on you, Castiel. Now, what were you losers saying about best two out of three?” He didn’t wait before tearing off.</p><p>Castiel watched after him, his joy somewhat subdued by Gabriel’s words. In another life, Castiel could be with his beloved in the daylight. He told himself it was fine. He’d rather walk in the darkness forever with Dean at his side.</p><p>“Alright, the blabber mouth is gone,” Balthazar said, leaning in conspiratorially. “It’s just us now. Tell me: who is she and why all the secrecy?”</p><p>Briefly, Castiel was tempted to tell him. He didn’t. He kept his thoughts with Dean, and shot Balthazar one last pointed look. He kicked his heels against his horse, sending it forward. Behind him, he heard Balthazar loudly assure him their conversation wasn’t over.</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p> </p><p>The manor was quiet upon Castiel’s return, as it often was around midday when the majority of the staff broke for lunch. Castiel had brought his horse to the stable and scanned the grounds for any sign of Dean. When he hadn’t found him, he briefly considered going to Dean’s apartment in search of him, but he’d rather not interrupt Dean’s sleep. Instead, he headed inside and went straight to his piano.</p><p>The ride and the fresh air had helped clear his head; so had the opportunity to step away from the manor for a while. It afforded him the energy he needed to breathe new life into the piece he’d been working on. Simple tweaks: G-flat instead of sharp, eighty beats per minute rather than seventy-five.</p><p>He let his eyes fall closed as he played, listening to the flow of the notes. They conjured up images of Dean’s head resting on the pillow next to Castiel’s, of the way his lashes fluttered when Castiel touched him, the curve of his most genuine and free smile. The awareness of the hollow in Castiel’s chest returned. Every time he looked at Dean—every time he heard his voice, felt his touch, thought of him—the dark and empty space filled with an echo, a hum produced by a white-hot radiating glow. It pulsed within, sharp enough to fill him with breath, dull enough to ache.</p><p>He tried to capture the sound of it, the rhythm. He thought it sounded like this: defiant and proud, earth-shattering, righteous, awe-inspiring, and sad. Like Dean.</p><p>“That sounds good.”</p><p>Castiel stopped playing at once. His eyes ripped open, embarrassment filling him. He could hardly look at the doorway, where Dean was hovering. He’d gotten so lost in the feeling Dean had colored his world in that he didn’t even notice the unmissable sensation of Dean’s presence.</p><p>Dean looked like he’d been there a while. He stood up from his lean on the doorframe and paced into the room. “That a new one?”</p><p>Castiel’s fingers were still poised on the keys. He looked down at them. “Yes,” he managed to choke out. Dean wasn’t supposed to hear this. It wasn’t ready. Even if it had been, Castiel wasn’t certain he’d ever show him. He was not used to this: putting his soul on display. Before Dean, he hadn’t even truly known he’d had one.</p><p>Dean sat on the bench beside him, their thighs touching. He was solid and warm against Castiel, and he smelled like the outdoors. “Where’ve you been all morning?”</p><p>“Riding,” Castiel told him, chancing a glance at him.</p><p>Dean hummed. There was dirt on his chin. His eyes lit over Castiel, expression shifting when he caught sight of something. Despite Castiel’s confusion, Dean reached forward and prodded at his temple with the pad of his thumb. It caused a jolt of pain. Castiel gritted his teeth.</p><p>“Sorry,” Dean said, withdrawing his hand. “You got a bruise.”</p><p>Castiel hadn’t realized. He huffed. “Thanks to Balthazar.”</p><p>“Battle wounds?” Dean teased. “Did you at least win?”</p><p>Castiel rolled his eyes.</p><p>Dean didn’t press. His gaze flickered down to the keys. “Can I hear the song again?”</p><p>Castiel turned his face to look at Dean fully. Dean didn’t know what he was asking. But Castiel couldn’t refuse him. Nor could he refuse Dean of his soul. Nor his heart.</p><p>He nodded, nerves alight inside of him. He didn’t know why. Dean had already complimented the piece, but perhaps he was just being polite. “It’s, um… A work in progress,” he attempted to preface.</p><p>Dean shrugged like it didn’t matter much to him.</p><p>Castiel swallowed and brought his attention back to the piano. His skin and sinew felt too tight around his knuckles. His bones jittered. He took in a steadying breath.</p><p>He played.</p><p>Dean sat still, his eyes tracing along Castiel’s face and hands, and Castiel could feel it as though Dean were running his fingers across his skin. He was aware of every rise and fall of Dean’s chest. The air moved around them like water, like they were floating together, suspended. The constant ticking of the metronome atop the piano fell away. The music seemed sweeter with Dean next to him. It seemed sadder—with its sinuous ability to wrap around them, bind them, and still Dean was some unreachable thing. A far off light in the dark. A dream.</p><p>After the final notes, Castiel’s fingertips hovered over the keys. Slowly, he brought his hands to his lap beneath the piano. He didn’t look at Dean. “That’s all I have,” he heard himself say, but he’d said it so low, he wasn’t certain Dean had heard.</p><p>“It was nice,” Dean told him, and the bubble of pressure in Castiel’s chest popped. He tried to fight back a smile. Dean had liked it.</p><p>“Who’s it by?” Dean asked.</p><p>And, just like that, anxiety ratcheted up Castiel’s throat again—because it was one thing for Dean to know; it was another thing entirely for him to understand. Castiel was too self-conscious to say. “No one,” he deflected.</p><p>Dean scoffed out an incredulous laugh. “No one?” he echoed dubiously. “It’s gotta be written by somebody.” There was a grin on his face. Castiel brought his eyes up, and he wasn’t certain what was written on his features, but it caused Dean’s smile to fade gradually. As though he was able to read Castiel like a book, he gave a choked sound and asked, “Hang on. Did you <em>compose</em> that?”</p><p>Castiel’s insides clenched. “<em>Compose</em> is a strong word,” he said. “But… yes.”</p><p>Dean was looking at him like Castiel had just written Beethoven’s Sonata Pathétique or painted the Sistine Chapel. “I didn’t know you wrote your own music.”</p><p>“I don’t,” Castiel corrected quickly. He’d never had the compulsion to do so in the past. No matter what, he could always find solace and peace of mind in the works of the greats. But, when he looked at Dean, no song—no work of art, no note or chord, nothing—compared.</p><p>He’s rehearsed and toiled over verses that ached of love and romance and longing, and he’d never comprehended them before. Now he understood that, whatever he felt for Dean, it must have been something else entirely. Love felt too small a notion. This was more like a religion. Wherever Dean was, there was Castiel’s temple. Whatever this emotion was, Castiel must have invented it.</p><p>“I suppose I was… inspired.”</p><p>Wonder and pride were glimmering in Dean’s eyes. “Yeah? By what?”</p><p>Castiel almost laughed. Did Dean not know? No. Castiel supposed Dean could never know. Dean could never return the extent of Castiel’s love, and that was fine. To have anything at all was a privilege.</p><p>He kept his mouth pinched in a smile as he looked back at Dean. “I wouldn’t want to embarrass you.”</p><p>Dean blinked, eyes flashing in realization. His entire expression shifted into astonishment, then rearranged again into modesty. And he had no idea that a few notes on the piano didn’t come close to expressing the wildfire that burned inside Castiel’s veins for him; he just had no other way to show his veneration. If only Dean knew the extent of the truth, that he’d rendered Castiel deaf and mute, blind and bound, and he’d never felt so free.</p><p>Dean ducked his head bashfully. “Well, it… it, uh,” he stuttered, then cleared his throat. “It’s really nice.”</p><p>“Thank you.”</p><p>“Can…” Dean brought his eyes back up, and a buoyancy akin to a child’s filled them. “Can I hear it again?”</p><p>Castiel meant to indulge the request, but he didn’t move. He couldn’t bring himself to do anything besides take in the sight of the man next to him. Dean stared back, his eyes falling down to Castiel’s lips. And for a second, Castiel forgot he didn’t need to restrain himself anymore. He could have this. He could pretend Dean was his and always would be.</p><p>He was just about to suggest that they go upstairs when a voice came from the doorway, bursting the bubble the two of them had been surrounded by.</p><p>“Mr. Wesson, I believe breaktime is over,” Zachariah said, tone snide and pointed. Both Castiel and Dean swiveled to the doorway. As surreptitiously as possible, Castiel scooted a little further away from Dean. He hadn't even heard Zachariah's footsteps in the hallway, as if the butler had been <em>trying</em> to sneak up on them.</p><p>“Yeah,” Dean said, visibly trying not to sigh. “I was just—”</p><p>“If the next words out of your mouth aren’t ‘getting back to work,’ we’re going to have a serious problem. Or did you forget about our previous discussion?”</p><p>Castiel frowned. He wasn’t certain what discussion Zachariah was referring to, but knowing that he’d taken note of Dean’s whereabouts was disconcerting. Though, Zachariah always had been observant—not to mention shrewd—when it came to his staff, so Castiel assumed his interest in Dean wasn’t significant. So long as they continued to be careful, the butler would be none the wiser.</p><p>“Getting back to work,” Dean bit out. He stood up, shooting Castiel an exasperated look. Castiel pressed his mouth into a line, sorry to see Dean go.</p><p>Dean crossed the room, shoulders held tightly and movements tense. He walked around Zachariah, who stared back with a haughty smile. When Dean reached the door, Zachariah called after him, “And clean the mud off your boots before entering the house next time.”</p><p>Castiel could picture the way Dean’s mouth formed silent curses and insults in response. He ducked his head to the piano, fighting back amusement at the imagery. Of course, until Zachariah tutted and said, “That boy. I don’t understand his refusal to stay in line. It’s like he’s <em>asking</em> to be fired! I’m starting to think I should give him what he wants.”</p><p>Castiel glanced up cuttingly, panic drenching him. “No!” he said before he could tame his reaction.</p><p>Zachariah blinked, attention swinging toward Castiel. “I beg your pardon?”</p><p>Castiel gritted his teeth in an attempt to hide his emotions, but fear and anger warred within him. The mere suggestion of losing Dean had his fists forming. “Dean’s excellent at his job.”</p><p>Scoffing, Zachariah said, “Maybe when he’s <em>actually</em> doing it, which is a rarity.”</p><p>That wasn’t true. “He’s an asset.”</p><p>“An <em>asset</em>?” Zachariah was balking. Castiel’s face tightened. “Castiel, he’s staff, and easily replaceable—”</p><p>The response was sharp-tongued and unbidden: “So are you.” It shut Zachariah up.</p><p>Castiel reminded himself to be reticent. Too much emotion on the matter wouldn’t do anyone any good. However, he’d never been so adamant about anything before. He was certain what <em>too much emotion</em> would entail. When it came to Dean, it seemed there was never enough.</p><p>“Dean is my friend,” he tried, tone firm. “You’re not to terminate him. Is that clear? I won’t have this conversation a second time.”</p><p>Zachariah appeared thrown, but he must have been better at concealing his emotions, because his reaction was brief. He nodded. “If that’s what you want.”</p><p>Castiel swallowed and nodded, satisfied.  He turned back to his piano, his mind still buzzing with ire over the exchange. He was aware of Zachariah dismissing himself and closing the door behind him. Castiel breathed in to center himself. It had been a terse conversation, but it needed to be had. He reminded himself he was within his rights. Zachariah should be careful not to cross any lines with Castiel; he should be the fearful one, not the other way around.</p><p>And perhaps now, Zachariah would even leave Dean alone.</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p> </p><p>That night, after the house had gone dark and silent, Castiel sat up in bed, skimming what must have been the hundredth manuscript he’d read in a month. It was just to pass time until a familiar rapping of knuckles sounded on the glass door of the balcony. He glanced up, delight already pulling at his mouth, because there was only one person it could be. Dean rarely spent the night in his own apartment anymore.</p><p>Through the glass, Dean’s hands were shoved into his jacket pockets and his shoulders were hunched to fend off the nip of the oncoming autumn that was in the air.</p><p>Castiel kicked off the covers and crossed to the balcony door, unlatching it for Dean. “Evenin’, sweetheart,” Dean said when the door was open. He hooked an arm around Castiel’s waist and pulled him in close.</p><p>“Hello, Dean,” Castiel told him just before the kiss landed. Dean’s mouth was plush and smooth. The rest of him was chilled by the night. A swift breeze rustled the leaves of the tree nearby, and Castiel knew it was only a matter of time until they changed color and fell to the ground. The world would turn toward winter, and Castiel didn’t think he’d mind the long months inside anymore. Not with Dean to keep his body warm.</p><p>When the kiss broke, Dean circled his fingers around Castiel’s wrist and walked around him, into the room. It was a familiar movement, one he must have done a dozen times by now. And Castiel counted himself lucky to have a nightly routine with Dean.</p><p>He allowed Dean to pull him through the door. As he turned, something caught the corner of his eye. It was a flash of light across the grounds. For a moment, it looked like it had come from inside the window of Dean’s apartment. Frowning, Castiel did a double-take, and found nothing. It must have been the reflection of the moonlight on the glass.</p><p>He closed the door behind them and drew the curtains. He let Dean lead him to bed.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0017"><h2>17. Chapter 17</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>2020</strong>
</p><p>
  <em>Something was ripping him apart.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He could feel the tears in his flesh, ripping him open to the veins. It cut and cut and slashed until every inch of him stung with hissing agony. All he could do to rail against it was contort and writhe—and it hurt. It hurt to move. Pain weighed him down.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>His mouth was dry, throat raw. Distantly, he heard screaming. It was constant, blood-curling. It was the kind of scream that made Dean barrel gun-fist into danger, hoping to help, hoping the scream wouldn’t be cut off before he found the evil that was causing it. But then he realized the screams were coming from him.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Something was ripping him apart.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>His bare back stuck to the floor. Blood was everywhere, pooling around him, staining his skin, seeping into the cracks in the wood. The scent of iron filled his nose, choked him. Every breath felt like the point of a knife was dragging across his lungs. He tried to gulp in air anyway, to cling to consciousness.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He realized his eyes were closed. He tore them open—</em>
</p><p>Dean gasped awake, shooting upright in bed. For a brief moment, he didn’t know where he was. He had to orient himself, blinking desperately to rid himself of the nightmare. He was in his room. The sun was peeking in from behind the blinds. It was morning. He was in bed. He was safe.</p><p>His heart jackrabbited so furiously, it hurt. He rubbed at his chest. He rubbed at his eyes, too. He inspected his arms, finding them clean of blood and devoid of injury. He grunted and moaned, gulped hard and rattled his head, willing the echo of screams to fade away.</p><p>When he caught enough breath, he cast a glance at the bed beside him. All that was there were empty sheets and a roughed-up pillow with the indent of Cas’ head still in it. It was only marginally better than the sight Dean had been waking up to in the week since they got back from Kansas: the line of Cas’ shoulders as he faced the wall in sleep.</p><p>Dean grumbled and wrestled his legs out of the blankets. He hissed at the relatively cold air that bit at his skin. Thankfully, his first class didn’t start for a few hours, and he was thinking about skipping it anyway since all he really had to do anymore was review for finals. Still, he was too alert to try for sleep again. He shoved his legs into sweatpants over his boxers, his feet into his slippers, and his arms into his robe before shuffling downstairs.</p><p>He could hear the news on in the living room, which signaled Cas was in there, and he could smell coffee, which hopefully meant it was still hot. He was willing to gamble it was fresh enough. Cas had never been an early riser.</p><p>Grunting with exhaustion, he poured himself a cup and followed the sound of the newscaster into the living room. Cas was on the couch, a bowl of cereal cradled in one hand. His spoon hovered halfway to his mouth when he noticed Dean enter. The milk dribbled off the sides, plopping back into the bowl.</p><p>“Morning to you, too,” Dean grouched. He sat in the chair wedged into the corner instead of on the cushion next to Cas.</p><p>Cas didn’t say anything. His eyes shifted back to the TV as he chomped down around his spoon. He shoveled in more bites like he couldn’t eat fast enough. There was no way he was <em>that</em> interested in a news story about the elementary school’s bake sale, and there was <em>really</em> no way he was loving his breakfast that much because Dean was pretty sure the cereal was stale.</p><p>Dean dug at his eye with the heel of his palm, wondering if he was awake enough for a confrontation. He brought his coffee to his lips, taking in a hesitant sip. It burned the tip of his tongue. He hissed, annoyed, and decided he really was in the mood to pick a fight, after all.</p><p>“Guess you’re still pissed at me,” he said, placing his mug on his thigh, still holding it by the handle. It didn’t take long for the ring of heat to seep through his pant leg.</p><p>Cas paused mid-chew before swallowing. He didn’t look at Dean when he said, “I’m not angry. I’m upset.”</p><p>Dean scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Seriously? You wanna argue semantics?”</p><p>Lips pinched, Cas corrected, “I’m trying not to obfuscate the two.”</p><p>Dean brought his mug back to his mouth. Behind it, he mumbled, “Yeah, well, you’re <em>obfuscating</em> me good enough.” He didn’t care if that didn’t make sense.</p><p>It looked like Cas was about to argue, but then there was a knock at the backdoor. Dean swiveled around, almost offended by the intrusion. What, was it some overzealous Amazon delivery guy who didn’t get the message to just leave the package at the door? “The fuck is that?”</p><p>“The Klines,” Cas said. He stood up and placed his bowl on the coffee table. “I told Kelly I’d walk Jack to school this morning.”</p><p>Dean could probably count on two hands how many times he interacted with the Klines before Cas arrived, and now it was a daily thing. It never bothered him until that second. “What, is he your kid now all of a sudden?”</p><p>Cas shot him a vehement glare on the way to the door.</p><p>“Don’t you have work?” Dean demanded.</p><p>“It’s my day off,” Cas answered distractedly. He unlatched the door and swung it open, where Kelly and Jack were propping open the screen door on the other side. Their expressions were cheery and Cas’ tone was a lot brighter when he greeted, “Good morning.”</p><p>“Morning, Castiel,” Kelly said at the same time as Jack’s squeal of, “Hi, Cas!” </p><p>Dean needed more coffee.</p><p>“Thanks again for doing this,” Kelly said, placing her hand atop Jack’s sandy hair. “I think he likes it when you take him to school more than when I do it at this point.”</p><p>“I’m sure that’s not true.”</p><p>“Yes, it is!” Jack assured. It made both of them laugh.</p><p>“<em>Brother</em>,” Dean grumbled into his mug.</p><p>It was at that exact moment that Kelly spotted him. She didn’t seem to hear him though, because her voice remained pleasant. “Good morning, Dean.”</p><p>Dean offered a little wave and a smile, because it’s not like he wanted to be rude. He wasn’t angry at the Klines. Kelly wasn’t the one who refused to give Dean a break. She wasn’t the one who expected him to be well and fully adjusted to the horrors of his past life a month after he found out it even existed.</p><p>“Okay,” she breathed out in finality, lightly ushering Jack through the door. Jack walked through, his puffy brown winter coat making his small frame twice as wide as it normally was. His <em>Finding Dory</em> backpack looked a little tighter than it should have around his shoulders. “Have a good day at school, honey. Bye, Castiel. Bye, Dean!”</p><p>“Bye, Mommy!” Jack called as the door closed.</p><p>Cas didn’t hover for long. He crossed back to the table and picked up his dishes, then went to the kitchen to drop them into the sink. Jack followed him around like a baby duckling. Dean’s eyes followed him, too. Cas didn’t look back, but his shoulders were set in such a way that suggested it was a conscious decision. Dean didn’t know what the fuck his problem was.</p><p>Outside, he heard the tires of Kelly’s car crunch against the frozen gravel as she backed out of the driveway.</p><p>“Are you ready?” Cas asked Jack, and then barely waited for an answer before plucking his coat off of the rack near the front door. It was still that limp, thin trench coat. It definitely wasn’t warm enough for winter. Dean glanced at the TV. The weatherman was predicting snowfall overnight. At least two inches before turning into rain. Cas needed a thicker coat.</p><p>He didn’t know why that thought made him deflate. Maybe they could have a truce long enough to go coat shopping.</p><p>The door opened and closed, and Dean slumped into his chair. He was goddamn tired, but he didn’t think coffee was the answer. It felt like he hadn’t gotten a good night’s sleep in years.</p><p>At least this whole nightmare was tolerable when Cas could look at him for longer than three seconds. When they were in this together.</p><p>Dean just wanted things to be <em>tolerable</em> again. He didn’t think that was an outrageous request. But, in order to get that, somebody was going to have to blink first in this metaphorical staring contest.</p><p>“Dammit,” he breathed out. He blinked.</p><p>Quickly, he went to the backdoor and pulled his boots on over his sweats. He fought his way into his coat and snatched up his keys. He left through the front door, hurriedly locking it on his way out. Cas and Jack were already a few houses down, headed in the direction of town. Cas was holding Jack’s hand, the backpack swinging on his opposite side.</p><p>Dean rushed after them, and he probably sounded like a lunatic while he called, “Hey! Cas! Wait up!”</p><p>Cas stopped, looking over his shoulder. He and Jack had twin expressions of confusion on their faces.</p><p>Dean was nearly out of breath by the time he slowed to a halt beside them. Cas scanned him up and down, taking in his attire.</p><p>“Can I tag along?” Dean asked innocently.</p><p>Cas’ mouth formed a tight line. He looked down at Jack, who blinked up at them owlishly, and then said, “I don’t see why not,” which meant, <em>fuck you</em>.</p><p>Dean took it as a win anyway.</p><p>They started walking again, Cas setting a pace much slower than usual so Jack’s little legs could keep up. Dean was happy about that because one of his boots had become untied thanks to his sloppy, rushed attempt to lace them and it was dangerously close to slipping clean off his foot.</p><p>He was debating whether or not Cas would outright murder him if he asked to stop so he could tie it when he felt something bump up against his hand. He looked down at Jack, who was offering his tiny, mitten-clad palm to Dean. “Cas says we have to hold hands for safety.”</p><p>Dean grimaced, about to say he’d take his chances, because he wasn’t here to play babysitter. But then he caught the warning glare Cas was cutting into him. He decided to suck it up and take hold of Jack’s hand. It was so small, Dean was afraid he’d break Jack’s fingers if he gripped too tight. “Sure thing, kid.”</p><p>Jack beamed happily up at him, probably thinking he was protecting Dean from some threat. Dean didn’t admit out loud that it was kind of cute. As for Cas, he seemed satisfied—so, who knew? Maybe Jack was Dean’s savior, after all.</p><p>“Jack was just telling me about the homework he completed last night,” Cas said, starting up the conversation again.</p><p>Dean popped his brows. “Oh, yeah? They’re already giving you homework? Preparing you for a life of working overtime. Capitalism never rests.”</p><p>“<em>Dean</em>.”</p><p>“What? It’s true!”</p><p>Jack didn’t seem interested in socio-political rebellion that morning. Brightly, he explained, “I liked it! We were supposed to draw a picture of our favorite animal. I picked a snake.”</p><p>Dean almost choked on his own spit. He’d been expecting a kitten or a puppy—maybe a lion or something. “Come again?”</p><p>Jack launched into a story about the time he saw a python at a zoo—how “pretty” the colors were and how the way it wrapped its massive body around a tree limb was “cool.” He also said he wanted one as a pet, but Kelly said no, and Dean was relieved to hear that. He’d probably move out the second he knew there was a snake living in the same building as him. He’d rather not get eaten whole and end up as a digesting lump for a week.</p><p>Luckily, the conversation drifted away from snakes as they got closer to town. More people were walking along the sidewalks, and there was a higher concentration of traffic honking at stoplights. Every now and again, Dean would cast a fleeting look at Cas, whose nose had turned red in the cold. The contrast of color made him seem a little more pallid than he had been in recent weeks. He hunched in on himself, and Dean wondered if that was because of the occasional windchill or if he was still giving Dean the cold shoulder. Either way, he definitely needed a warmer coat before he got hypothermia.</p><p>It only took about ten minutes before they came up on a squat building with large front windows painted with crude depictions of cartoon children chasing butterflies and playing with building blocks. By that point, Jack was in a fit of giggles, gripping both Dean and Cas’ wrists tightly as they swung him between them. Dean had always wanted to try that, but he’d never known a kid before. It was fun as he’d imagined. He’d even managed to get half a smile out of Cas.</p><p>The inside of the building was toasty and inviting. Dean thawed off in the entranceway while he scanned the colorful room. A gaggle of kids were greeting each other and putting their backpacks in their cubby holes along the wall. Others were sitting at the circle of small, brightly colored plastic seats in the center of the room. A play area with a hopscotch carpet and toys was off to the side of the room. A teacher was writing the lesson plan on the dry erase board.</p><p>Cas kneeled down in front of Jack, helping the kid out of his coat and winter gear. “Have a good day, Jack. Your mother will pick you up after school.”</p><p>“Okay,” Jack said, accepting the backpack from Cas. He held up his palm. “Bye, Cas! Bye, Dean!” With that, he scampered off to the cubbies to start his day. Dean lifted his hand out of this pocket and waved back.</p><p>He was struck by how normal and domestic all of this felt. Part of him—the part that had been born and raised in Kansas, the part that worked a job to put himself and his little brother through college—felt right, standing there dropping off a kid at school with his husband. The other part of him—the part that had blood and gunpowder on his hands—cursed himself for even allowing himself to dream of such things. He didn’t really know how to balance the two.</p><p>He turned to Cas, hoping for an answer.</p><p>Instead, all he got was another narrow-eyed glower as Cas pushed out the door. Dean huffed, flapping his arms against his sides in exasperation. He followed Cas out into the blast of winter air.</p><p>Cas was striding quickly back to the sidewalk, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. Dean regretted not taking the opportunity to tie his shoes inside. The soles of his boots clunked heavily on the salted cement when he rushed after him.</p><p>“You need a warmer coat,” he said when he caught up.</p><p>Visibly shivering, Cas said, “I’m fine.”</p><p>“Okay, great. So, you wanna stop off somewhere to pick one up since we’re in town?”</p><p>Cas gazed at him sidelong. “You’re in your pajamas, Dean. Did you bring your wallet?”</p><p>Dean did a quick scan of his body and realized Cas was right. “No. But I thought that was the point of you making your own money, remember? So you could buy this shit for yourself.” <em>Ha! Checkmate.</em></p><p>“Yeah, that was the point.” He bit out the admission, and only Cas could find a way to weaponize a surrender.</p><p>“So?” Dean fished.</p><p>“No. Thank you.”</p><p>Okay, Dean was officially done. He’d tried to extend an olive branch, but now he was just pissed again. “You really still holding this over my head? How many times do I have to say it? Sorry I didn’t tell my mom! There, I said it again. Happy?”</p><p>Cas breathed out through his nose. He didn’t <em>look</em> happy. “The issue isn’t that you didn’t tell her—”</p><p>“Yeah. Got it. It’s that I told <em>you</em> I was gonna tell her.” It was more semantics. Dean gave an exaggerated shrug. “But I wasn’t lying. I was really gonna tell her. My balls shrank last minute. Cut me some slack.”</p><p>Someone walked past them on the sidewalk and shot him a scandalized glance. Dean wanted to tell the guy to mind his own business.</p><p>Meanwhile, Cas rubbed at his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. “There is… <em>slack</em>.”</p><p>Dean almost laughed. “This is what you call slack?”</p><p>Cas jutted out his jaw and shook his head marginally. He just kept walking, silently seething. Dean was sick of feeling like this was his fault. “Hey! Look at me. I’m trying here!”</p><p>Cas did look at him, but not directly. He kept his head ducked, chin tilted slightly in Dean’s directions. His eyes flickered from Dean to the sidewalk. “I know.”</p><p>“Then what’s the problem?” Dean barked. His stomach was twisting in that way that told him danger was just around the corner. That he should brace himself for a punch to the gut. He wouldn’t even let himself blink.</p><p>Cas tipped his head back, exposing the column of his neck. His Adam’s apple bobbed. Fog formed around his face as he breathed out of his nose. “Dean,” he said, but it didn’t sound like he was addressing Dean. It sounded like he was talking about somebody else. He seemed to reconsider, and then amended, “Dean Wesson—”</p><p>The name was a slap to the face. Dean reacted immediately. “Nope.” He grabbed Cas’ elbow and stopped them both short. Luckily, they were on the outskirts of town now, and there was no one around to overhear them or to shove past. Honestly, Dean didn’t know if he’d notice if there had been. “Enough with that shit. Don’t call me that. It’s Winchester now, got it?”</p><p>Cas was grinding his teeth. His nostrils flared out. “Of course. My mistake.” He jerked out of Dean’s hold and started walking again.</p><p>Dean withered, knowing he’d probably overreacted. He pinched the bridge of his nose, hoping it would extinguish his anger like a flame on a candle’s wick. “What were you gonna say?” he called, having to catch up with Cas again. “Cas!”</p><p>“It doesn’t matter, Dean,” Cas said through his teeth. “Your surname doesn’t matter.”</p><p>Dean rattled his head. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”</p><p>“I don’t know you,” Cas told him in a rush, like he was trying to spit it out before he changed his mind. He rounded on Dean, halting them both. Dean probably would have stopped walking, anyway. He felt like he’d run into a wall. “There are times I look at you and I…” Whatever flare that had been driving Cas must have run out of steam. His eyes flickered downward and to the side.</p><p>Dean tensed himself. “You what?”</p><p>“I don’t recognize you.”</p><p>It was a good thing they weren’t walking, because Dean was pretty sure he would have tripped and fell. All he could do was try his best to absorb the blow.</p><p>“I thought,” Cas kept up, voice soft, barely audible. He marshaled himself by standing a little straighter and squaring his jaw. But he still wasn’t looking Dean in the eye. “I assumed I had your trust. I was wrong. I don’t know if that was by my own failing or—”</p><p>“Whoa, what?” Is that really what he thought? “I was trying to protect you.” He still was.</p><p>Cas stood completely still for a second, and Dean wondered if he’d even heard what he said. He just kept looking forward, eyes completely void for a beat. Dean didn’t even think he was breathing. He wondered where Cas went in moments like those—what dark part of himself he’d crawled into.</p><p>Then, Cas seemed to blink himself awake.</p><p>He said, “You failed.”</p><p>Dean felt himself go slack. He didn’t feel much of anything else.</p><p>Cas started walking in the direction of the townhouse again. It took Dean a second to lift his eyes and watch him go.</p><p>The words—cruel, stinging, truthful—rattled around the hollow of his chest.</p><p>And the bitch of all was that he probably deserved that.</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Something was ripping him apart.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Screaming. It took him a long time to realize the screams were coming from his own mouth.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Blood. It was everywhere, pooling around him, staining his skin. It smelled of iron.</em>
  
</p><p>
  <em>Something was ripping him apart.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He tore his eyes open—and saw a set of blue.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Cas!” he called, trying to lift his head, to hold out his arm toward Cas. To reach him. His body was heavy around him. He collapsed back to the floor, panting. “Cas…”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Cas’ face was ash-white, lips blue. A thick, black bruise ringed his neck. His eyes fell closed.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Dean was still looking up at him, but Cas had gotten higher somehow. Something was around his neck. Fabric. He wasn’t opening his eyes.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Dean jumped to his feet, his heart beating enough for the two of them. “Cas!” He could still feel the blood on his palms—hot, wet, sticky. “Castiel!”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He wrapped his arms around Cas’ legs, lifting him up to take pressure off his neck, to open his airways. Even though his skin was ashen, his lips blue, his eyes closed. His hands ice cold.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>This was his fault. His fault. He’d been too slow. He should have come sooner.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Help!” Dean’s voice was hoarse. It took him a long time to realize it was coming from his own mouth. Sobs were racking up his chest. “Help! Somebody help us!”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Sticky, hot blood on his hands.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Dean!”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>His fault.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Somebody help!”</em>
</p><p>“Dean! Wake up!”</p><p>Dean jackknifed off the bed, gasping in so deeply that his throat felt raw. He kept drinking in the purple nighttime air of his bedroom. Every time he blinked, he saw blood, heard screams.</p><p>Cas was on his knees on the mattress, hands fisted into the front of Dean’s shirt, eyes wide and shimmering in the low light bleeding through the curtains from the streetlamp outside.</p><p>Dean hummed and grunted, trying to calm himself. His heart was still pounding against his ribs, but his breaths were evening out. He skewed his eyes closed tightly, willing the phantom images of his nightmare to fade away. His throat convulsed as he tried to swallow.</p><p>“Is he alright?” he heard Sam’s quiet voice from the doorway. Dean looked over, suddenly embarrassed. Sam was standing, bare toes poking out from the bottom of his pajama pants and hair ruffled from his pillow, with his hand on the doorknob. His gaze was waiting for Dean. Dean blinked away from him quickly, shame rising up his throat.</p><p>“I’m good,” he said, even though his voice was thick. It still hurt to swallow. He guessed he’d been shouting in his sleep. As far as he was aware, he’d never done that before.</p><p>“I’m good,” he said again, holding up his hand.</p><p>Cas’ fists loosened. Out of the corner of his eye, Dean saw Cas nod severely to Sam. Sam nodded back. He said, “Okay. Good.” He hovered momentarily before gently closing the door behind him. Dean gave a long exhale for good measure, letting his body go slack now that Sam was gone.</p><p>Around them, the shadows didn’t diminish. Dean’s eyes didn’t adjust. The darkness only seemed to gather. Into it, Cas spoke: “Are you really alright?”</p><p>Dean turned his head to look at him but changed his mind halfway. He stared at Cas’ chest instead. They’d barely looked at each other, barely said two words to each other, since that morning.</p><p><em>You failed</em>.</p><p>Dean closed his eyes and saw Cas’ body swinging from the rafters.</p><p>“Yeah,” he lied.</p><p>Cas must have known it was a lie. He hung his head and breathed out audibly through his nose. Lifting his face again, he whispered, “What were you dreaming about?”</p><p>Dean would have laughed if he had the capacity. He didn’t even know where to start. He realized he was gripping the comforter that had pooled on his lap. In the darkness, its navy color looked black. “I don’t know.”</p><p>Cas sighed again, resigned. Marginally, he shook his head. He must have thought Dean was lying again.</p><p>“I really don’t,” Dean insisted. He scrubbed his hand down his face, trying to both conjure images from his dream and push them away. He didn’t want to remember. “It’s… I’ve had it before. The dream. It’s like…”</p><p>Slashes on his skin. Blood. Terror.</p><p>“Like someone’s carving me up.”</p><p>There was a door in the back of his head. It was hanging from the hinges, wide open. There was something still inside, in the corner, scratching at the back wall.</p><p>Cas’ hands were still on him, but his touch was light. “Is it… a memory?”</p><p>Dean’s chest tightened so quickly, he thought it was a heart attack for a brief moment. “No.” He wasn’t 100% on that answer. He shook his head anyway, like denying it would make it true. “No, I don’t think—It’s not.”</p><p>He kept staring at Cas’ chest, watching it swell and deflate in breaths.</p><p>“First time I had it was at the manor,” Dean admitted, not really knowing why he said it. “The night you came back.”</p><p>He heard Cas’ breath trip. Then, “In your dream... who’s hurting you?”</p><p>“No one—I dunno.” It was the truth, but Dean couldn’t convince himself of that fact. He <em>did</em> know. Somehow, he did know. He just couldn’t remember. But he thought he was hurting himself.</p><p>He dug at his eyes and lowered himself back down to his pillow. Cas remained still, kneeling beside him. Dean rubbed and rubbed until his eyes hurt and dark spots were swirling in his vision. He dropped his arms and tried to focus on his breathing.</p><p>“You…” Dean rolled his head on the pillow, following the sound of Cas’ voice. “You were calling for me.”</p><p>Dean set his jaw. He remembered his dream. The image of a face—cold and drooping and still so lovely—popped into his head. Dean tried to blink it away, to remind himself of tan skin and twinkling eyes. It didn’t work. He wished he could turn on the light. He wished he could see Cas’ face. He was scared that, if he did, it would be gray and sunken.</p><p>“You’re there sometimes,” Dean told him. Blue eyes, Cas standing over him. But that wasn’t quite how it went that time around. “It was… different this time.”</p><p>He could feel Cas’ inquisitive eyes on him.</p><p>“Tonight, I mean. It was—that part of the dream—it was a memory.”</p><p>Cas’ silhouette shook its head. “I don’t understand.”</p><p>Dean didn’t want to explain. “It was the night I found you.”</p><p>“Found me?” Cas repeated, confused. What wasn’t clear about it? Was he really going to make Dean spell it out?</p><p>“Yeah, come on, man,” Dean tried to growl, but he was too tired, too strung out, too angry. “When I found you. After you…” <em>Why did you kill yourself? Why did you do that?</em> “Died.”</p><p>Cas was quiet for a long time. He was still. His breath was silent. Dean wanted to check his pulse.</p><p>Then, “<em>You</em>… found me?”</p><p>It took a long time for Dean to realize Cas had no idea what he was talking about. He lifted himself up on his elbows, staring directly at Cas’ outline in the darkness. The window was directly behind him from that angle, the yellow light from the street hazy behind the blinds. Cas was surrounded in it like a halo.</p><p>“You didn’t know that?” Dean asked. Cas shook his head. And it made sense. How <em>could</em> Cas possibly have known that? Dean didn’t know why he’d assumed.</p><p>“Why—” Cas started breathily, “why were you in the manor?”</p><p>Dean knitted his brows together. “What d’you mean, why? To get <em>you</em>.” They were supposed to leave together. To go to California. Something had gone wrong. Dean didn’t remember what. Whatever it was, Cas never got the message.</p><p>But if he had just waited a little longer... Just a few more hours…</p><p>Cas was shaking his head persistently now. “No, that… You’re mistaken.”</p><p>The pressure in Dean’s chest started clawing up his throat. He wanted to scoff, to play it off, to forget all this ever happened and go back to sleep. Something cold touched his skin instead. “No, I’m not.” He heard the repugnance in his own tone. It was licked with disbelief.</p><p>There was no way he could ever make something like that up.</p><p>But Cas doubled down on his efforts. “No, you—That’s not possible. That—that—It wasn’t you.”</p><p>Dean picked himself up fully, the sheets rustling beneath him. He didn’t know what he wanted to feel: hostile or concerned.</p><p>Because fuck Cas. Fuck him! Dean went back for him and found him <em>dead</em>, and it was the last thing he remembered from that life. Like something in him had died, too.</p><p>“Hey!”</p><p>Cas’ gaze was downcast. He kept rattling his head down at the blanket.</p><p>“It <em>was</em> me! I <em>remember</em> it. I came back to get you so we could catch a train out of town.”</p><p>“No,” Cas repeated. “No. You left.”</p><p>Dean grabbed his wrist, jerking him forward. Cas drew in a sharp breath, wide eyes shooting up to Dean’s.</p><p>Why the fuck was Cas so intent on believing Dean abandoned him?</p><p>“For the last time—no, I didn’t! You <em>know</em> I didn’t. You sat in that house for 150 years waiting for me. Why would you do that if you didn’t think I was coming back?”</p><p>Dean couldn’t see the look on Cas’ face, but he saw the slight tilt of his head, the slow way he pulled in breath. He could feel those big, sad eyes on him. “Dean,” Cas said so low he might have not said anything at all.</p><p>Dean’s throat went dry. He braced his fingers around Cas’ wrist, feeling the bones shift under the skin, feeling the thud of his pulse point. <em>Alive</em>.</p><p>Earlier, Cas said he didn’t know Dean. But that stupid. He was the only damn person who ever really did.</p><p>“I did this to us,” Cas whispered.</p><p>Dean started. “What? No. Cas—”</p><p>“Dean, I’m so sorry.”</p><p>Dean didn’t know what exactly he was apologizing for. But, whatever it was, Cas wasn’t the reason they were alive again. He couldn’t be.</p><p>“No, listen…” He didn’t have anything to follow that up with. He was tired. They were both tired. “Let’s just—get some sleep, huh? We can talk about this in the morning.”</p><p>Cas paused, and for a second, Dean thought he’d say no. But he nodded.</p><p>Dean sunk back down to the bed. It took a second, but Cas followed. He shuffled around and pulled the blankets over up to his chest. Dean could practically <em>hear</em> him thinking.</p><p>He rolled into Cas’ side, hoping to gain his attention. Cas kept staring up at the ceiling. In the close proximity, Dean could make out the furrow of his brow. He reached up, smoothed the lines on the bridge of his nose with his thumb. Cas’ chest deflated in a long exhale. His eyes fell closed.</p><p>“Go to sleep, Cas.”</p><p>He tried to follow his own advice. He rested his temple on Cas’ shoulder, counted Cas’ breaths.</p><p>It took a long time for sleep to come.</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p> </p><p>Morning took its damn time to arrive. When Dean finally did manage to fall back asleep, it was fitful and fleeting. He laid awake in bed, watching whatever rays of the weak, grey sunlight that managed to peek out through the clouds spread like mist over the ceiling. He heard the rain when it began to batter the roof. Cas slept through it, breaths so shallow, he might as well not have been breathing at all. His eyes never flickered in a dream; he never moved an inch in sleep.</p><p>Dean gave up on sleeping at around 7 AM. He burned a pot of coffee and failed to stomach some eggs. The kitchen’s yellow overhead light was glaring as it bounced off the counters. The rain streaked down the window over the sink. It was so dark out now, it might as well have still been night.</p><p>Sam came down at 7:45 to take a shower, casting Dean a wary look as he passed. Thankfully, Sam didn’t say anything about last night, but Dean was sure he wouldn’t be able to avoid the “are you okay” conversation after his brother fully woke up. Sam was still locked behind the bathroom door, the shower water turned off, when Dean heard his phone alarm go off upstairs fifteen minutes later. It took way too long for Cas to turn the alarm off. The floorboard above creaked when Cas eventually got up and started moving around, probably dressing for work.</p><p>The rain kept pouring. Everything felt unreal, like Dean was existing in a space just to the left of time itself. His mind had been totally blank all morning. He’d been staring forward, eyes stinging with the need for sleep. The second he heard Cas’ feet hit the ground, his fingers tightened around the mug of his lukewarm coffee.</p><p>He hadn’t expected his teeth to start grinding, for the phantom touch of blood on his pool on his skin, for the distant echo of screams to fill his ears. For the ghastly memory of a pale face and a bruised neck to flicker before his eyes.</p><p>
  <em>That’s not possible. It wasn’t you.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>You left.</em>
</p><p>Dean had the sudden urge to chuck his mug across the room.</p><p>It was lucky that Sam took that exact moment to emerge from the bathroom, looking like a wet dog in jeans and a t-shirt. His bangs stuck to his forehead. Impossibly, he seemed shrunken against the gloom of the day.</p><p>Dean breathed, trying to calm himself. The sight of his brother helped a little.</p><p>“There any more of that?” Sam asked, nodding toward the coffee mug.</p><p>“Probably cold,” Dean grunted. It was the first thing he’d said all day. He lifted his mug to his lips to test his theory, and grimaced when he was proven right.</p><p>“Hmm,” Sam said in response. He plopped down in the adjacent chair. Dean let his gaze fall to the table, hoping he could hold off the conversation for a little longer if he didn’t make eye contact. It was probably hopeless. He could feel Sam looking at him like he was a fox writhing on a forest path, leg broken. Dean really hoped someone would take mercy on him and shoot him.</p><p><em>Some things you just can’t save. It’s better to put them out of their misery</em>.<em> You understand, son? Some things you just have to let die.</em></p><p>The thought popped into his head unbidden. It was his father’s voice. Dean didn’t remember the context, but he knew for certain it wasn’t a memory from this life.</p><p>“So,” Sam said way too casually, “some night.”</p><p>“Yeah,” Dean said. He tapped his nails against the mug. “Sorry for, uh… waking you up.”</p><p>Sam waved it away. “No, c’mon. It’s… But you’re okay, right?”</p><p>Dean really wished Sam would stop being so gentle with him. “I’m good.”</p><p>“I just know you’ve been having a lot of nightmares recently,” Sam went on, probably trying to get it all out before he was shut down. “And that you used to have them—you know, back then.”</p><p>Dean lifted his eyes in question. There was no way Sam could know that.</p><p>Sam deflated in a breath. “Cas told me,” he said, confirming Dean’s suspicion.</p><p>Dean bit down on his jaw, trying to stamp down his frustration at that. Upstairs, the floor wailed again. “Cas tell you anything else?” He didn’t like knowing the two of them talked about him behind his back.</p><p>“I mean.” Sam shrugged innocently. “I guess. I dunno. He said you used to dream about the war.”</p><p>“Right.” Dean nodded, sucking on his teeth. He’d dreamed about a lot more than the war back then. He still did. “Yeah, that wasn’t that.”</p><p>Sam blinked, sitting straighter. “What was it?”</p><p>Dean should have bit his damn tongue. He took another gulp of coffee and instantly regretted it.</p><p>Sam spread out his hands on the table imploringly. “Dean, seriously. What’s going on with you? Is it Cas?”</p><p>A dry laugh punched out of Dean’s throat. Because what the hell kind of question was that?</p><p>The floorboards gave another disembodied creak. Dean wanted to punch something.</p><p>“Is it Cas? Of <em>course</em>, it’s Cas!” He didn’t mean to yell. All the blood instantly rushed to his head at the mention of Cas’ name.</p><p>
  <em>It wasn’t you.</em>
  
</p><p>
  <em>You failed.</em>
</p><p>“I thought you two were okay?”</p><p><em>You left</em>.</p><p>Dean couldn’t sit there anymore. His body was suddenly too full of pent-up energy. The chair whined against the tiles when he stood up and paced aimlessly to the counter. “We’re pretty far from okay!” He held out his arms and turned around on a dime to face his brother. “I dunno who he blames more for all this! Himself or me!”</p><p>Expression pinched, Sam nodded down at the table. When he swung his gaze back up, he asked the last thing Dean expected him to: “Who do <em>you</em> blame?”</p><p>Dean went still. He didn’t know how to answer that question. He blamed himself. Of course, he blamed himself. But then the image of Cas’ body popped into his head—and he blamed Cas, too.</p><p>He collapsed against the counter and ran his hand down his face. “He still thinks I left him,” he said. “Won’t believe that I went back for him. And, you know what? Maybe he’s got a point. Because I <em>went back</em> for him. Which means I <em>did</em> leave him in the first place.”</p><p>“Dean, from what I’ve seen, you guys are pretty disgustingly head over heels,” Sam told him. Dean shook his head, because that didn’t matter. He loved Cas; Cas loved him. Dean didn’t doubt that. He doubted everything else.</p><p>“What if it wasn’t enough?” He popped his brows, walking back to the table. “Because I left, and Cas fucking hung himself.” And Cas just expected Dean to get over that! To be okay with it! To adjust after only a month when Cas had 150 years to come to terms with it! “Obviously, loving each other wasn’t enough!”</p><p>Sam’s expression tensed. “Dean—”</p><p>Dean ignored him. He didn’t want any more platitudes. “And maybe he knows that. That’s why he’s off doing his <em>damnedest</em> to push me away.” The job, Kelly and Jack, Cas’ refusal to let Dean help him in the slightest. Cas didn’t want his help. He didn’t want Dean. “Hell, maybe I should let him! Because it’s either that or tie him down—and I dunno what the better option is!”</p><p>Because what was his third option? What, was he just supposed to let Cas fend for himself, to not protect him? Was he supposed to fail Cas again?</p><p>“Dean—”</p><p>“Maybe I should’ve just let him stay dead in that manor! Then, at least, I’d have a chance of keeping an eye on the poor bastard!”</p><p>Sam dropped his head, expression indecipherable. He looked back up, and it wasn’t until that exact moment that Dean realized his eyes were fixed on something over Dean’s shoulder.</p><p>A pit instantly opened in Dean’s stomach.</p><p>Holding his breath—hoping against hope that he was wrong—he turned around to the stairs.</p><p>Cas stared back at him, eyes wide and burning, jaw set, fists tightened, face ashen.</p><p>“Dammit,” Dean breathed out. He wondered how much of that Cas heard. He wanted to say he hadn’t meant a word of that, but they both knew that wasn’t the truth.</p><p>The rain beat against the windows. Cas was silent for a long time, and then: “You’re not him.”</p><p>Dean jerked his head back, not knowing what the hell that meant. “What—”</p><p>“You’re not him,” Cas repeated, shaking his head. He wasn’t looking at Dean anymore. He was looking everywhere <em>but</em> at Dean. “I don’t—I don’t know who you are but you aren’t… This was a mistake.”</p><p>Reality was finally catching up to Dean. “Cas,” he tried, not knowing how to follow that up. What could he even say to that?</p><p>“I have to go,” Cas said quickly. He turned instantly, heading for the door.</p><p>“Cas, hang on,” Sam said urgently, standing up. Dean whipped around to look at his brother, eyes frantic, hoping to God Sam had some way of keeping Cas in place before he walked out the door.</p><p>Cas didn’t listen. He grabbed his coat off the rack and didn’t bother putting it on before ripping open the front door. The wind whipped inside, ran pounding on the doorstep, some of it spreading into the entranceway.</p><p>“Cas!” Dean called. His heart was slamming against his chest. It tried to dislodge from his body and go after Cas. But his feet were glued to the floor.</p><p><em>Some things you just have to let die</em>, his father told him.</p><p>The door slammed behind Cas.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0018"><h2>18. Chapter 18</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>yes, the first scene of this chapter is inspired by the scene with the robe (you know the one) in that marilyn monroe movie jensen was in</p><p>yes, i continue to choose violence with every subsequent scene of this chapter :))</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>1867</strong>
</p><p>Late December howled with iron-scented wind that whipped around the house and rattled the windows. Drifts of snow occasionally fluttered from above, leaving the grass on the lawn frozen over. Outside, the night was deep and black. The manor was silent; it had been for hours. Except for the fire popping in the hearth in Cas’ bedroom.</p><p>Dean twirled a semi-circle around the bedpost, his knees brushing up against the mattress in the process. Cas was sitting on the bed, naked but for the linens in a pool on his lap. He pinched the bridge of his nose in a mixture of distress and exhaustion, which was exactly what Dean had been going for. Because it meant Cas was secretly amused by his antics.</p><p>Cas had been pretty down ever since Dean told him he was leaving the manor for a couple of months for his time off. As much as he wished Cas could come with him to Boston, Dean was excited to see Sam again. It had been over a year and the only contact he’d had with his brother was through letters. It wasn’t enough.</p><p>Still, it would be a lot easier to leave a smiling Cas than a sad one.</p><p>“See? Told you I was getting better,” Dean said as he continued to waltz around the bedpost. The ends of his silk robe fluttered out around him. The garment belonged to Anna’s husband. He’d left it behind, probably by accident, when the two departed after their Christmas visit. Dean only met Cas’ sister in passing, but he liked her. He liked the robe more. He decided it was his now.</p><p>“Dean, you’re getting worse,” Cas droned.</p><p>Letting the insult roll off his back, Dean danced away from the bedpost. He held out his hands to Cas. “Maybe if I had a better partner…” He waggled his brows, trying to make the offer enticing.</p><p>He thought it would have cheered Cas up marginally, but Cas’ frown deepened. He slumped back against the headboard. “I assume I’ll be doing enough dancing at the end of the week,” he grumbled.</p><p>Dean let his arms drop to his side. Envy spiked in his heart at the thought of all the eligible women who would dance with Cas at the upcoming ball. He told himself it was fine, because Chuck had apparently given up on his efforts to find Cas a wife. Since the summer, there hadn’t been a single event—not a dinner, ball, or even a tea party to speak of. At first, Dean had been holding his breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop. After weeks turned into months, he’d learned how to breathe again.</p><p>There was nothing to worry about. It was the tail end of the year, and the Novaks’ were still rich. They had the biggest ballroom in town. This was nothing more than a party. He was pretty confident it had nothing to do with Cas.</p><p>“Maybe,” he said, doing his best to keep his tone light. “But will any of those debutants be as shitty at dancing as I am?”</p><p>Cas wanted to smile; Dean knew he did.</p><p>Dean sighed when he didn’t. He walked back to the foot of the bed and climbed onto the mattress on his hands and knees. “C’mon, Cas. It’s our last week together,” he whined.</p><p>Cas looked down at his lap. “I know,” he said, and it sounded like the words got stuck in his throat.</p><p>“And, I already told you, I promise to write,” Dean said. He crowded into Cas’ space, nosing at his cheek. “I’ll put Walt Whitman to shame.”</p><p>Cas scoffed, and at least it was <em>something</em> like a laugh. “I’m interested to see how you’ll do that.”</p><p>Dean leaned back. “You gonna write me back, sweetheart?”</p><p>“Of course,” Cas said, eyes going big and genuine. Dean told himself there was no chance of him opening one of those letters to read about Cas’ new finance. He did, though, wonder if the letters would stop after a while. With Dean out of sight, Cas would probably realize he had better things to do with his time than write to an off-duty groundskeeper—especially now that he was working at the firm. Then, when Dean did return in the spring, Cas would want nothing to do with him. He bit down on that fear, not wanting Cas to see it on his face.</p><p>“Good.” He closed the space between them in a chaste kiss. Then, Cas framed Dean’s face with his hands and sighed against his mouth, parting his lips. Dean opened up to him, letting their tongues roll together.</p><p>His shoulders starting to complain, Dean shifted his position to straddle Cas’ lap. He wrapped his legs around Cas’ waist, pressing their chests together. Cas circled Dean in his arms and trailed his palms up his back; his fingers traced the outline of Dean’s shoulders. He came to a rest at the back of Dean’s neck, his thumb stroking the skin there. His hands were chilly.</p><p>Dean deepened the kiss, intent on warming Cas up. Cas’ thumb kept moving, the motion unvaried and idle. It took Dean a second to realize Cas wasn’t kissing him back anymore.</p><p>He leaned back. Cas’ eyes were half-lidded, gaze downcast and veiled, thoughts far away. He didn’t move for a long moment, except to stroke Dean’s neck.</p><p>Dean’s throat clicked when he swallowed. He didn’t want to leave Cas like this.</p><p>“Cas?”</p><p>Cas blinked slowly, lifting his eyes. His thumb stopped moving and his brow scrunched momentarily, not long enough for Dean to press his thumb into the lines that had formed there. Instead, Dean rested his forehead against Cas’. They breathed each other in. Dean could feel Cas looking at him.</p><p>“I’ll miss you,” he heard Cas whisper between them, his breath skirting across Dean’s cheeks.</p><p>Dean’s eyes fluttered open, but he kept his gaze down. Selfishly, he wanted what Cas said to be true. “Nah,” he said flippantly. “You’re too important now. Won’t even notice I’m gone.” <em>That</em> sounded like the truth. It settled like a stone behind Dean’s ribs.</p><p>Cas shook his head slightly. “No.”</p><p>Dean didn’t answer. He didn’t really know how. He was too busy keeping hope from springing inside of him. If he did that, he’d expect everything to be exactly the same when he returned—as if Cas would stay suspended in time, waiting for him. It was a stupid thing to hope for.</p><p>Cas inhaled deeply. He moved his hands to round Dean’s shoulders. He said, “I love you, Mr. Wesson.”</p><p>It stole Dean’s breath. His pulse stuttered and his throat convulsed. His gaze flew upward, stunned. Slowly, he leaned back, eyes moving wildly around Cas’ face. He thought he’d just imagined that—because it couldn’t be true. No one had ever loved him. He wasn’t built for that. His blood ran too hot; his hands were too calloused.</p><p>But Cas’ eyes were imploring and devoid of all fear, and it didn’t even look like he expected Dean to say it back. As if he said it simply so Dean would know it before he left.</p><p>And, for a moment, it <em>could</em> be true.</p><p>Cas loved him. It felt like the only real thing.</p><p>And Dean loved him back—and wasn’t that a damn tragedy? Cas was worth more than Dean could give. All Dean’s love, the wretched and broken thing it was, was a curse. Cas didn’t deserve it, and he wouldn’t deserve it when it ended in pain. When Dean’s hidden truths and lies became too much of a burden, when he found out what Dean really was—if he even lived that long with such a target on his back.</p><p>For a second, he wanted to tell Cas to take it back. But he knew Cas better than that.</p><p>It occurred to him that he could leave, just walk out the door, and tell Cas it’d be better for both of them if he forgot Dean’s name. It’d be safer. He could protect Cas by leaving and not coming back in the spring. The words sat on the tip of Dean’s tongue.</p><p>He didn’t want to say them.</p><p>He collected Cas’ hands in his and dragged his lips over his cold knuckles. Dean promised himself, then and there, that he’d always keep Cas safe. He promised himself he wouldn’t let it end in pain.</p><p>“I love you, too, Mr. Novak,” Dean said. He never thought he’d ever get the chance to say it. Now that he had, it didn’t seem big enough.</p><p>Cas gave a breath. It sounded like he’d been holding it in for a long time. On the heels of it, there was a smile. “Dean…” he said, wonderstruck.</p><p>Happiness bubbled up Dean’s throat and escaped in a chuckle. He leaned back in and captured Cas’ lips. Cas kissed back eagerly, like he was trying to fit a thousand kisses into one.</p><p>Cas loved him. They were in love.</p><p>Dean would never leave him.</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p> </p><p>The week marched on, and before Dean knew it, he only had two nights left at the manor before his departure. He wished he could spend them wrapped up with Cas, but it was also the night of the year end ball. He figured, after the party, there would still be time for them to spend together.</p><p>Above, the moon and stars were obscured by a dark blanket of fluffy clouds. Snow drifted downward in thick, cottony pieces to collect in a bed of frost on the earth. The grass, still valiantly poking out from beneath, crunched under Dean’s boots as he walked toward the manor. The snowflakes melted on his cheeks and hair, settled on the shoulders of his jacket. He thought warm thoughts—a fire in the hearth, the comfortable blanket on Cas’ bed.</p><p>He could see the glow of the fireplace already flickering in Cas’ window. On the bottom level, he heard the muffled violins, talking, and clattering from the party in the ballroom. He bet it was pretty warm in there with all the body heat.</p><p>The party had been in full swing for about three hours now, which meant Cas was more than ready to get it over with. Dean figured it would be a good opportunity to sneak up to Cas’ room and surprise him when everyone left. It would probably be the last chance Dean would get to surprise him for a while.</p><p>Plus, it was a good opportunity to make sure Cas’ room was warded against any magic. Dean had been meaning to do that for months. It was only a precaution. Cas was safe in the manor, and Rowena, the only witch who knew where Dean was, knew better than to mess with him. Still, Dean would rest a lot easier at night knowing Cas was protected.</p><p>Dean reached the trellis outside of Cas’ balcony. The ivy and roses that wrapped around the wooden crosshatch were all dormant for the winter. Dean fit his boot into the bottom rung, preparing to climb, when the music coming from the ballroom shifted from an upbeat, jaunty tune to something slow and romantic. He glanced over at the glow pooling out from the grand windows, curiosity getting the better of him.</p><p>He crept along the house’s outer wall until he reached the first set of ballroom windows. At least a hundred people were inside, dancing and drinking, talking and laughing, in tailored suits and colorful gowns. Dean saw a few familiar faces among them, like Gabriel and Balthazar, and a few people he’d seen around but didn’t know by name. Wreaths and Christmas trees decorated the room, their bows garnished and bobbles glinting. There was a giant fire raging in the fireplace along the back wall. The string quartet was nearby it, the lilting tune singing from their instruments.</p><p>A twinge of jealousy went through Dean when he remembered walking among those people, his face hidden, able to pretend just for one night that he was one of them. That he and Cas were on the same level, and Cas wouldn’t one day realize that Dean was more trouble than he was worth. That hands like his couldn’t hold the person he loved without breaking him.</p><p>His eyes were drawn to the dance floor, watching the men and women twirl together. Cas was there, his movements sinuous and elegant, every step learned and practiced and perfected. Dean wasn’t built for dancing. He was built to barreling into a fight, fists first, like a battering ram. All he ever did was step on Cas’ toes. But Cas made it look so easy.</p><p>He towered over the woman he was dancing with, and she looked up at him with dazzling eyes and laughter poised on her tongue. They seemed to be in conversation, and she hung on his every word. Daphne. Dean recognized her from that afternoon in the garden. She’d complimented his work.</p><p>He couldn’t look at the two of them for too long without his stomach turning to knots. Without picturing himself dancing with Cas in her place.</p><p>Scanning the room, he found Zach scolding one of the waiters carrying a tray of empty champagne flutes. Dean rolled his eyes and looked away, his gaze finding Chuck Novak. Chuck stood along the wall, lording over the party with a sated, satisfied look on his face. Dean recognized the man he was talking to; he’d been with Daphne that summer morning in the garden. He must have been her brother. Chuck leaned in and commented something, pointing a lofty finger toward the center of the room. Daphne’s brother nodded and said something in return.</p><p>Disinterested, Dean cast one more glance at Cas. The song was ending. Like the rest of the couples, Cas and Daphne stepped away from each other and gave a bow of their heads.</p><p>Dean turned away from the window, deciding there was no use in standing around watching Cas like a creep. He went back to the trellis and hoisted himself up, climbing until he was able to swing his legs over the balcony railing. The glass doors were unlocked, and he pushed into the smoky-scented warmth of Cas’ bedroom. He shook out, melted snow raining down from the ends of his hair. It came off his boots in chunks, dissolving onto the hardwood.</p><p>He took his pocket knife out of his jacket and got to work.</p><p>He carved tiny warding sigils into the entrance points, keeping them low down where they wouldn’t be noticed—the base corner of the bedroom and the balcony doors, on the undersides of the windowsills, into a stone on the fireplace. He also etched one into the wooden leg of Cas’ bedpost. He wanted to line the windows and doors with salt, but he figured Cas would spot that pretty easily. Besides, it would get cleaned up by a maid in no time.</p><p>Dean glanced around the room, looking for any weak point he might have missed. He was pretty sure he’d gotten it all, but, for good measure, he lifted his chin to look up at the rafters on the vaulted ceiling. Three thick beams, ten feet apart, ran from one side of the room to the other. There was no way Dean would be able to reach two of them, but there was one just over the foot of Cas’ bed. He thought he could get to that if he stretched far enough.</p><p>Kicking off his boots, he climbed onto the mattress, feeling it shift and dip under him, unsteadying him slightly. He negotiated his balance by fisting at the fabric of the canopy—and, finally, he figured out a good use for that damn thing.</p><p>Dean stood on the balls of his feet, stretching as tall as he could and leaning precariously forward. His palm smacked against the deep, dark wood of the rafter. He tried to make himself taller, to reach the topside of the wood so he could carve the sigil where Cas wouldn’t see it.</p><p>The knife scratched blindly against the rafter. Dean grunted, hoping he was doing a good job. This was a bad idea. He was about three seconds away from toppling over and cutting himself, and Cas would definitely start asking questions when he found Dean with his palm slashed open, blood everywhere.</p><p>Deciding whatever he’d managed would have to be good enough, he slowly tipped back down onto heels, his arms shooting out for balance while the mattress shifted again. He exhaled, relieved that he hadn’t fallen over.</p><p>He did another cursory look around, coming up satisfied. He pulled down the corners of his mouth and nodded. “Okay,” he said to himself, and pocketed his knife.</p><p>He flopped down on the bed, staring up at the canopy. He figured he had another hour until the party was over, but that was fine. He could wait. He sunk into the softness of Cas’ mattress and focused on the warmth of the fire in the hearth on the opposite side of the room. If he listened really hard, he could hear the music from downstairs.</p><p>He allowed his mind to drift. It conjured up images of a house just like this, only in Boston—a house that didn’t exist yet. There would be a room like this, too, and a bed that they’d share. Dean wouldn’t have to worry about a trellis or sneaking out in the morning.</p><p>He had Cas. He had a home. Sam was nearby, a hot-shot lawyer in the city. Dean wouldn’t have to leave for months, to choose between seeing Cas and his brother. There wasn’t salt on the windows or sigils carved into the wood. Life was peaceful.</p><p>It was starting to feel like something that was in reach.</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p> </p><p>The party ended hours ago. It <em>must</em> have been hours. Dean felt like he’d been waiting for Cas to get to his room forever. When he got bored with lounging in bed, he kept himself busy by going through Cas’ clothes and holding them up to himself in the full-length mirror, just to see what he’d look like—but that’d gotten old a while ago. He could no longer hear the music drifting from the ballroom, and the rest of the house was still and quiet. He was pretty sure everyone was asleep by now.</p><p>So where the hell was Cas?</p><p><em>You try to surprise a guy</em> one <em>time, </em>Dean couldn’t help but think right as he decided to go find Cas himself. He crept down to the bottom floor. Just as he suspected, the hallways were dark, and the snow outside the windows fell heavily, blanketing the ground in earnest. It seemed to swallow all sound.</p><p>Dean headed to the music room, expecting to find Cas in his usual haunt. The room was empty. There were coals in the fireplace.</p><p>He checked the kitchen next. No one was inside, but there were still plates of fancy cheeses and cakes laid out in the scullery, waiting to be put away in the morning. Dean snatched an open bottle of champagne and took a swig. It was room temperature. He made a disgusted face and set the bottle down. He grabbed a cupcake and took a giant bite of it to get the taste out of his mouth. Still chewing, he headed back into the hallway.</p><p>On a whim, Dean went toward the west wing of the house. He could probably count on one hand how many times he’d been in that wing, and Cas was never there unless they were hosting a ball or a dinner—or if Chuck called him to his office.</p><p>The dining room was dark, the unlit candles in the holders on the table down to the nubs. But, beneath the double doors leading into the ballroom, Dean saw a flickering orange light. He crossed the room and stuck his head through the door.</p><p>The ballroom looked gigantic without anyone to fill it. It was just a desolate space. The tables were still pushed to the wall, but the white tablecloths hung over them limply, empty and stained. The floor had scuff marks in it that would need to be buffed out. Outside the wall of arched windows, the snow continued to come down. The fire in the massive hearth was the only source of light. It was stoked high, the flames inside roaring and popping as they licked upward. Their color reflected on the tile floor, an echo of warmth that was eventually overcome by darkness.</p><p>Cas was in front of the fire, sitting on a dining room chair, his side facing the hearth. He was folded in on himself, elbows on his knees, hands clasped in front of his lips as though in prayer. His form was a silhouette against the flames. A long, shivering shadow stretched out behind him.</p><p>Dean slipped into the room, letting the door fall closed behind him. “There you are,” he called, annoyed. What the hell was Cas doing in there by himself? Dean’s voice echoed off the high ceilings, as did the sound of his footfalls as he walked across the expanse toward Cas. With every step, the heat on his cheeks stung a little more.</p><p>Cas remained as still as a corpse. He didn’t even react to Dean’s voice. The tips of his hair caught the firelight.</p><p>When Dean came to a rest beside him, he held out his arms akimbo and popped his brows. “What, you didn’t have enough of the party?”</p><p>Cas’ eyes moved up to look at Dean through his lashes. His face was hard, lips pinched, jaw jutting out in sharp edges. In the low light, he almost looked as if he were a statue chiseled from marble. Fury and frenzy forever etched in stone, as cold and deadly as the blizzard outside.</p><p>But his eyes were too full of expression. Too sad.</p><p>Despite the fire, Dean went cold. He furrowed his brows, confused. “What?”</p><p>Cas bit down on his jaw and lowered his gaze. His posture went slack. His eyelashes caught the golden color of the flames.</p><p>Fear stole over Dean. He tried to control it, to hold his body tight, but he thought some of it slipped into his voice when he demanded, “Cas?”</p><p>Cas lifted his head, placing his chin on his entwined hands. “My father chose a match.”</p><p>Dean had known what he was going to say before he said it, but still, the words didn’t process. It was like Dean’s thoughts were buried in an avalanche. He didn’t know how to dig them out.</p><p>And Cas just kept on talking, kept on giving more and more information that Dean couldn’t possibly keep up with. “It’s Daphne Allen. That’s why my father agreed to let me start working at the firm instead of finding a wife. He’d already had one picked out. I’m to marry Daphne, and her brother will move to New York to become executor of the firm’s branch there. They’ve been negotiating for months.”</p><p>His voice was low, rumbling, even and toneless. Dean thought he was probably in shock. But what did Dean know? He was in shock, too.</p><p>When all of it caught up to him, emotion hit Dean like a physical force. He latched onto one word, because it was all he could do: “<em>Negotiating</em>? What, like you’re some kinda fucking commodity?”</p><p>Cas sighed, sitting back in his chair. He turned his face toward the fire. “They aren’t paying a dowry, Dean. I’m not the one being treated as a commodity. Daphne is.”</p><p>Dean scoffed. It was bullshit. They were both being used like tools for Chuck to get what he wanted and Daphne’s brother to get a promotion. No. Dean wouldn’t allow it. His cheeks were burning, but all the heat was internal.</p><p>“So, they just make some handshake deal and the two of you get screwed? That’s not fair!”</p><p>He knew he sounded petulant and self-righteous, but it didn’t matter. He was pissed—and he was <em>glad</em> he hadn’t grown up in some backward life like this one. He’d rather have his freedom than fancy clothes, and he wasn’t about to let Cas fall in line. That’s not the way it was supposed to be. They were supposed to be together. They were supposed to get a house in Boston and live off Cas’ money until they were old and gray and ready for the grave.</p><p>That was the way their story was ending. Not like this.</p><p>Dean licked his lips, trying to come up with solutions. But, first, he needed to know just how deep into the problem they were. “Are you engaged yet?”</p><p>Cas shook his head, which was good. It meant there was still time. But then he said, “I’m to go to the Allens’ first thing in the morning and ask for Daphne’s hand.”</p><p>Okay, so they didn’t have <em>a lot</em> of time. They had a few hours. But Dean had been in tighter spots. He’d fought his way out then; he’d do it this time, too.</p><p>Dean turned on his heels, pacing closer to the hearth in thought. He passed his hand over his mouth. Really, there was only one thing they could do.</p><p>“Okay.” He turned back around to face Cas, his face set with determination. He gestured toward the door. “Go upstairs and pack a bag.”</p><p>Cas closed his eyes. “Dean…”</p><p>No. Dean didn’t want to hear it. He started talking again before Cas could say anything else: “C’mon. Pack light. We’ll leave tonight—get out and go somewhere they can’t find us.”</p><p>“Where?” Cas asked, sounding weary and frustrated, but Dean ignored the tone. He focused on the question, and chose to believe Cas was actually entertaining the idea.</p><p>He spread out his arms, rocking back on his heels, because he was up for suggestions. He had no idea where they’d go. Anywhere was fine. And then he remembered a conversation they’d had months ago. Sure, they were drunk at the time, but that only meant their inhibitions were lower and they were telling the truth.</p><p>“California,” he said. He gestured between the two of them. “California. You and me.” Considering, he added, “And Sam. We’ll head to Boston first and get him.”</p><p>Cas let out a sound that could have been a laugh, but the corners of his mouth were pulled down. “Sam still has a term left in college. We can’t ruin his life by asking him to drop out.”</p><p>That was a little dramatic. Dean wasn’t going to <em>ruin</em> Sam’s life. Sam was smart. He could finish his education in California. Dean didn’t really know if he could actually do that or if he’d have to start all over. He didn’t know anything about higher education, but who cares? It was just details.</p><p>“Then we’ll go ahead of him,” he said, desperation creeping into the edges of his voice despite his best efforts. He <em>wasn’t</em> desperate. He was being practical. “We’ll write to him and tell him to meet us out there when he’s done with school.”</p><p>Cas tipped his head in a sideways nod. He still wasn’t looking at Dean. “And then my father will show up unannounced at Sam’s apartment and ask him where to find us.”</p><p>Shit. Dean didn’t think of that. Chuck was influential, but Sam wouldn’t tell him a damn thing. And who knew what Chuck would do then? He could end Sam’s career before it even started. That really <em>would</em> ruin Sam’s life.</p><p>Leaving Sam open to threat was out of the question.</p><p>Dean’s pulse was pounding loudly in his ears. His throat felt thick and dry. “Well, then, don’t just sit there! <em>You</em> come up with a plan!”</p><p>Cas looked at him sharply, suddenly. Their eyes locked, and Dean didn’t like what he saw in Cas’ gaze. It was like he was trying to talk himself into something.</p><p>He watched Cas give a deflating breath. “Dean,” Cas said, voice quiet. “This is the plan: I will go to the Allens’ house in the morning, and I will ask Daphne to be my wife.” Dean shook his head, lip curling in anger. He’d rather die than let Cas give up. “And I will do my best to provide her with a life and children and stability. And happiness.”</p><p>“How?” Dean challenged. “You don’t even love her!”</p><p>Cas laughed again, dry and bitter, but he was smiling that time. “No,” he agreed, eyes searching the floor. “I will only ever love you.” He looked up again to show he meant what he’d just said, and the rage immediately drained out of Dean’s body.</p><p>And Dean couldn’t let that happen. He had to hold onto his anger. He had to grit his teeth and hold up his fists and slash and shoot and grapple his way to victory. Without the fire to fuel him, he’d splinter.</p><p>He turned around, hands scrubbing down his face. He couldn’t let Cas see the way his eyes were welling, stinging. Dropping his hands to his sides, he looked up at the ceiling. His breath shuddered out of his mouth.</p><p>He tried to latch onto something to pull him back up, to focus on hatred—to hate Daphne. But he couldn’t. Sure, she’d probably love to marry Cas. Dean had seen the way she looked at him while they were dancing, the familiarity between them that day in the garden during summer. She was a <em>nice</em> girl. She didn’t deserve to be dragged into this.</p><p>Rage and hatred failed. Dean felt himself sinking lower and lower into defeat.</p><p>“Dean,” Cas said behind him. The sound of his voice alone made a tear slip from Dean’s eyes. Dean quickly blinked away the rest before they could fall. He pinched his nose. Cas said, “I can’t ask you to stay.”</p><p>Dean’s expression shifted, confusion bleeding into doubt, and finally realization. Did Cas really think Dean was going to leave him? Or worse, was Cas <em>asking</em> him to go? He swiveled around, brows crossed and ready to argue. Cas wasn’t even looking at him.</p><p>“What?” Dean spat. “Are you serious?”</p><p>“I want your happiness, too, Dean,” Cas told him. “If you wish to go, I won’t stop you.”</p><p>Cas’ name was held between Dean’s teeth, and Dean didn’t know if he wanted to chew it up and spit it out or to swallow it down and keep it inside him forever. In the end, he said, without room for discussion, “I’m not leaving you.”</p><p>Cas hung his head further, and Dean wondered if he was relieved or disappointed.</p><p>Dean stomped closer to him. “Hey!” he shouted, voice booming off the walls. “Look at me, you son of a bitch. I’m <em>not</em> leaving!”</p><p>Cas didn’t look.</p><p>Dean growled out his frustration and dropped to his knees in front of Cas. He fisted at the front of Cas’ shirt and fished for his eyes. He didn’t know why Cas was being so damn difficult. He didn’t know why he wasn’t fighting. Why he was doing any of this.</p><p>“Listen to me,” Dean told him firmly. “You said you wanted to run away, right? Well? It’s go-time. We can figure it out.”</p><p>Cas shook his head again. He wrapped his fingers around Dean’s wrists. “Even if we did, there’s nowhere we could go where we could be together.” Dean wanted to tell him that wasn’t true. They could go west. They’d keep to themselves. No one would look twice at them. “My father is connected. He will find us and you will be the one to pay the price.”</p><p>As far as Dean was concerned, Chuck could do his worst. He’d battled magic. He’d fought for blood on battlefields. He’d killed people who wielded <em>real</em> power. Dean wasn’t afraid of some businessman. “What the fuck could he do?”</p><p>“He will prove that he can control us both,” Cas answered logically. But it wasn’t logical. It made no damn sense.</p><p>“So you’re just gonna let him?” The <em>least</em> Cas could do was make it hard for his father.</p><p>“Dean,” Cas breathed out, the word shaky and barely audible. It seemed to steal all his breath from him.</p><p>“No, Cas. Come on.” Dean’s grip on his tightened frantically. “Don’t give up on us and I won’t, either. I promise. I won’t give up. Show me how.”</p><p>Cas stared down at him for a long time, eyes glimmering in the golden light. It took Dean a minute to realize he was crying. It took him even longer to notice the sanguine smile stretching across the shadows on Cas’ face. A burst of laughter came out of Cas, and it sounded wet.</p><p>Dean had no idea what was going on. He’d never seen Cas cry before.</p><p>“Dean,” Cas said, almost like it was a song. “If there were words for what I felt for you…” He laughed again, shoulders rocking with it. Dean’s chest felt too tight. He let his hands fall to Cas’ lap. Cas slipped their palms together. His skin was cold.</p><p>“I’m not leaving you,” Dean promised. His gaze was fixed on one of the buttons of Cas’ shirt. He couldn’t bring himself to look away from it. He poured all his energy onto it, telling himself that, if he had something to focus on, he could find a way to talk Cas out of being so damn stupid. For now, all he had was a weak smile and this: “If we’re gonna be miserable bastards, we’re gonna be miserable bastards together.”</p><p>Cas sucked in a choppy breath and nodded, still smiling. His tears weren’t born of sadness, and Dean didn’t know why he looked so damn happy when all Dean could feel was agony. This was the worst night Dean had had in a long time.</p><p>He picked up Cas’ hands and dragged his lips across his knuckles.</p><p>Then, he leaned forward and rested his head on Cas’ lap. Cas carded his fingers through Dean’s hair, touch fleeting, almost like it wasn’t even there at all. Dean watched the flames in the hearth weaken.</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p> </p><p>Dean stared up at his ceiling. He’d watched the sun rise on it—the muddled, white light creeping along the wooden planks, eventually becoming awash with it. He heard the carriage house’s doors open below, heard the crunch of the wheels on the gravel and ice, the jangling reins and neighing of the horses being harnessed in. He heard the carriage slowly move to the front of the house, to pick up Cas, and then ride off down the drive, out the gate, onto the road headed to the Allens’ estate.</p><p>His fists had been held so tightly, his knuckles had gone white. He had to stop himself from leaping out of bed and rushing toward Cas before he even got the chance to get in that damn carriage.</p><p>He didn’t know how long ago that had been. An hour? Two? It was probably already done by now. Cas had gotten down on one knee; Daphne had smiled and laughed giddily as she gave her answer. Dean tried to fool himself into thinking it’d be a no. Maybe Cas stumbled too much during the proposal. Maybe he was too awkward. Maybe he sabotaged himself on purpose.</p><p>Dean held onto hope. And then he heard the carriage return. Garth’s chipper but indistinct voice rose up, muffled by the windows. The horses were taken back to the stable. It was too cold for them to stay out for very long.</p><p>Dean sighed. He sat up in bed, scrubbed his palms down his face. He kicked his legs off the side of the mattress. The floor was freezing under his bare feet while he crossed to the window. Snow covered the earth, and gray, thick clouds were threatening the horizon. The air smelled like metal.</p><p>The manor was probably sweeping with excitement—the maids chattering and gossiping about the proposal, Benny and his staff preparing a celebratory dinner. Zach was probably looking pretty smug right about now.</p><p>Dean’s eyes moved up to Cas’ balcony. It was empty. The trellis he’d installed there was still as barren as it was last night, the roses having died. Roses had been a stupid idea. He’d been trying to be romantic, but he’d cut his hands about a thousand times while climbing up and down during the summer. He’d even bled a few times. Cas had wrapped his hands up, kissed his palms.</p><p>By the time the roses were in bloom again, Cas would be married. Dean would have no need to bleed anymore.</p><p>The manor’s backdoor opened, a tall figure in a long coat catching Dean’s eyes. Dean exhaled deeply, trippingly, his breath fogging the glass. Cas pulled the collar of his coat closer around him to beat back the cold. He kept his head ducked, posture slouched, as he walked in the direction of the carriage house like a prisoner marching to the gallows. Dean could tell just from the way Cas carried himself that it was bad news.</p><p>Well, good news for Daphne. Good news for Chuck.</p><p>He went to his potbelly stove, opened the hatch, and crouched down. He tossed a few pieces of wood onto the fiery coals. There were familiar footsteps on the stairs outside.</p><p>Cas didn’t knock. The door swung open, letting in a gust of frigid air that immediately hit Dean’s back like a wave. The door closed.</p><p>Dean tossed on another log and closed the latch. He didn’t stand up and turn around. Honestly, he didn’t know if he could. “How’d it go?” His voice sounded overused, which was funny because he couldn’t remember the last time he’d talked.</p><p>Behind him, Cas groaned. There was a shuffling sound as he took off his coat, and then the bed creaked.</p><p>Dean couldn’t take it anymore. He already knew the answer, but he needed to hear it. Because then it’d be real and he could face it head on.</p><p>He looked around to where Cas was curled up on his bed above the covers. He was in his nicest suit: a navy double breasted waistcoat and white cravat, a tailcoat, immaculately pressed trousers, shoes polished so well that Dean was pretty sure he could see his reflection in them. Cas’ hair was even tamed of its usual wild waves and curls.</p><p>Dean got up and quickly crossed back to the bed. “Cas,” he demanded.</p><p>Cas sighed, world-weary, against the pillow. “She accepted.”</p><p>And maybe Dean had been wrong before about wanting to face it head on. Everything in him froze, and not from the cold. He paused, trying to collect himself. He hadn’t realized he’d been clenching his jaw until his teeth started to hurt. He felt nauseous.</p><p>He needed to shake himself out of it. Because Cas looked miserable enough for the both of them, and Dean couldn’t stand it. Especially because it didn’t have to be this way. They could have left. They could have run. Anger simmered in his gut. He told himself to stop it.</p><p>Sadness wasn’t an option. Anger wasn’t an option. All that left was a bitter hollowness inside of him, and for some reason that manifested itself in a smirk. “Course she did,” he said, sitting down on the side of the mattress. “Look at you.”</p><p>Cas closed his eyes, clearly not in the mood. “Dean…”</p><p>“Look, this doesn’t have to be a death sentence,” Dean said, trying to take another route. He didn’t mention the trellis. He didn’t mention the roses. He didn’t mention how that bed wouldn’t belong to just Cas anymore.</p><p>And Dean didn’t know how they were going to make it work. He really had no idea if he’d be able to watch Daphne coming into the manor, running it like it was her own, making changes everywhere while her stomach swelled with babies who’d grow up, who Cas would love. Dean really didn’t think he could keep a cap on his anger, on his bitterness, for all that time, all the while only having Cas in the infrequent in between.</p><p>And what if Cas grew to love Daphne? What then? What happened when Dean was left forgotten, when he was told they couldn’t be together anymore? Dean wondered, when that day came, if he’d see it coming. If it’d be a slow, painful, dreaded thing; or if it’d totally blindside him. What if it happened all at once? Or gradually—bit by bit, realized too late, until he was nothing but a flicker in the corner of Cas’ eye, a drifting specter haunting the grounds, buried by time and memory.</p><p>He cleared his throat, and he promised with a shaky smile, “I ain’t going anywhere, remember?”</p><p>Cas scoffed loudly. He picked his head up from the pillow and narrowed his eyes dangerously. “Dean, you’re leaving <em>tomorrow</em>.”</p><p>Right. In all the chaos, Dean had almost forgotten that. “Well, yeah,” he said, voice going up an octave. “But I’m coming back.” If he were welcome back. If, in a few months, Cas didn’t <em>actually</em> fall in love with his betrothed.</p><p>Cas breathed out again and flopped back down on the bed, this time on his back. He stared up at the same ceiling Dean had been searching for answers all night. He hoped Cas had better luck finding some, but apparently not. “I know,” Cas said morosely. “But it’s not just about…” He pinched his lips, shook his head. “I can’t control any of it. Why bother trying?”</p><p>No. No, Cas couldn’t think like that. That wasn’t the guy Dean knew. The stubborn, willful, sometimes downright stupid guy the Dean knew and loved. The second Cas stopped dragging his heels was the second all hope would be lost for them. And maybe Dean wasn’t ready to let that go yet.</p><p>But he didn’t know how to stop it.</p><p>He looked down to where Cas’ hand was resting on the bed. Dean picked it up, stroked his fingers. He tried to think of something to say; tried not to think about Daphne’s fingers, and the ring that would be on one of them in a matter of months.</p><p>And then an idea struck him.</p><p>“Maybe for this,” he said. He got up, headed to the slim dresser. The bowl filled with the protection poultice was starting to wither and rot. He’d need to replace it when he returned. But that wasn’t a priority. He lifted it up, revealing the small silver ring hidden beneath.</p><p>Cas had shifted, propping himself up on his elbows. His brow was furrowed curiously while he watched Dean swipe up the ring and move back to the bed. Dean tried to muster his confidence, to tell himself Cas wouldn’t reject him. He couldn’t. Because, if he did, then he was further gone than Dean had thought, and Dean had no idea how to get him back.</p><p>But maybe this was the way to get him to stay.</p><p>He sat back down, holding up the ring between pinched fingers. “This was my mom’s wedding ring,” he said. He focused on it for a moment, remembering his mother brushing back pieces of golden hair, the ring shining on her finger in the movement. Determinedly, he held it out to Cas. “Here.”</p><p>Cas blinked, confused, and then it seemed to dawn on him what was happening. He opened his mouth, but it took a long time for him to say anything. His eyes were big and blue, turned downward with sadness. Dean told himself to remain strong.</p><p>When Cas finally did speak, it was in a whisper. “Dean…”</p><p>Dean wouldn’t take no for an answer. “Look, you remember when I told you the garden was the only thing I had to give you?” he asked. Cas swallowed, nodded. Dean grabbed Cas’ wrist and yanked it toward him. He dropped the ring in Cas’ palm. “Yeah, well. I lied.” He folded Cas’ fingers over the ring, cradled them in his own hand.</p><p>And <em>this</em> was really all Dean had to give. It was everything. His whole life—for however long Cas wanted it.</p><p>He forced himself to look up, to meet Cas’ eyes. And Cas was staring at him like he had on the day they met—like Dean was some distant body of light, and Cas was studying him through a telescope. Like suddenly all logic and calculation fell away. And all that was left was magic.</p><p>Cas’ gaze dropped down to their hands. He nodded again, throat working. Dean thought he heard him sniffle.</p><p>Slowly, Cas retracted his arm and slipped the ring into the pocket of his waistcoat. Dean hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath until that moment.</p><p>“Dean, I would never want to keep you from your brother,” Cas said slowly, eyes still averted. “But I wish you wouldn’t leave.”</p><p>Dean nodded shallowly. He felt pulled into two different directions. Part of him told him to stay, because Cas needed him, and because he needed Cas. And he needed Cas to not fall in love with Daphne, to remember that he loved Dean instead.</p><p>And the other part of him missed Sam like someone had cut out an organ. It’d been way too long since he’d seen his brother. Sam needed him, too. And Dean knew, when the other shoe <em>did</em> drop and Cas eventually sent him away, he would return to his brother. It would always be like that. When everyone else was gone, it would be Sam and Dean.</p><p>Dean just hoped, after Cas, it’d be enough.</p><p>“Yeah,” Dean said, struggling to get the word out. He tried to focus on what he had now. He had Cas. And he’d keep Cas until they dragged him away, leaving claw marks behind. He smiled, knocked his forehead again Cas’. “Looks like you’ll have to visit me, if you miss me too bad.”</p><p>Cas’ lips turned up in a smile. He breathed out a laugh. “Will I?”</p><p>Dean hummed. And then, “Actually, no. I told you that you and Sammy’d get along too well. You’d gang up on me. Hell, the two of you’d love each other so much, you’d forget all about me.” He thought about what that’d be like: bringing Cas home to Sam, watching them bond. His heart swelled and popped.</p><p>Cas reached up and brushed the pads of his thumb against Dean’s cheeks. Dean leaned into it. “I’m sure we would,” Cas said wistfully. Dean would have really liked to have seen that.</p><p>He pressed in, pecked Cas on the lips. Cas draped his arms over Dean’s shoulders and kissed him, too. Dean guided him down to the bed and rolled on top of him, staring down. Cas gazed back up, eyes sparkling now, luminous.</p><p>“I mean it, Cas,” Dean said, stomach roiling. But he had to try, even though Cas’ smile was dimming. “You, me, and him… we could be on a train tomorrow night. Go anywhere.”</p><p>Cas let his eyes slip closed, and Dean was grateful for that, because it meant he couldn’t see the heartache on Dean’s face. For a single moment, Dean didn’t have to pretend.</p><p>“If I could, I would,” Cas told him. Dean wanted to ask why he couldn’t. Why did it have to be like this? Why just lay down and accept it? Why not fight, the two of them? Dean would protect him, not the other way around.</p><p>“I know,” he said instead, disappointment cresting inside of him. He tried to quell it by kissing Cas’ eyelids until Cas opened them up again. There was some fear in his eyes.</p><p>“Do you still…” he began, but appeared to change his mind too late. Dean knew what he was trying to say. And the answer was yes. If Dean lived for a thousand years, he’d always love Cas.</p><p>“Cas, I just gave you my mother’s wedding ring,” he said, making light. “What do you think?”</p><p>Some of the happiness returned to Cas’ expression. “I think,” he said, “you’re the most frustrating man I’ve ever known.”</p><p>The corners of Dean’s lips pulled. “Right back at you,” he said, and dipped down to kiss Cas again.</p><p>When he came back up, his gaze flickered to Cas’ oiled, tamed hair. Dean carded his fingers through it quickly, mussing it up. “Better,” he reported, nodding to himself.</p><p>Cas beamed up at him.</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p> </p><p>Morning brought wisps of clouds and patchy blue sky. The sun glinted blindingly off the snow blanketing the lawn. The air was heavy with a crisp chill. Dean tried to take that as a good omen. He would have been worried if the day he left Cas had been bleak and biting.</p><p>He stood in the kitchen, his packed bag slung over his shoulder. This was a familiar feeling: leaving. He’d done it so many times. He was good at it, which he never realized was probably a little sad until that very moment. Because there was an unfamiliar feeling, too: saying goodbye to his friends. It came with knowing, in a few months, he’d be back. He’d never stayed anywhere as long as he’d stayed at the manor, and a small part of him was afraid everything would be different when he did return. Like it wouldn’t be the same place he’d left.</p><p>“For the journey,” Benny said, handing him a cloth with something wrapped in it. Dean took it thankfully, feeling the contents shift around. Off his look, Benny explained, “Bread and jerky. Nothing too fancy.”</p><p>Dean was grateful nonetheless. “I’m gonna miss your cooking.”</p><p>Benny clapped him on the shoulder, face bright. “I’ll be sure to have a big meal waiting for ya when you come back to us in the spring.” He punctuated it with a wink, and Dean held on to that promise. He told himself that, of course, he’d be welcome when he got back.</p><p>He shoved the food into the side pocket of his bag, casting a quick glance toward the window. He couldn’t see the carriage waiting for him in the drive, but the sun was getting a little too high. He’d have to leave soon if he wanted to catch his train back to Boston.</p><p>He said his last goodbyes to Benny and headed out of the kitchen. Part of him expected the hallway to be filled with the muffled sound of piano music, but it wasn’t. Dean hadn’t seen Cas since before sunrise, when he slipped out of Cas’ room. Cas had still been sleeping, and he was probably pissed at Dean for not waking him up.</p><p>Dean had wanted to, really. Something had stopped him. He couldn’t say what. Maybe it was the dream he’d had about a field of soldiers, of a gun in his hand, of Cas standing on the other side of the barrel and falling, bloody. Maybe it had been the hours Dean had been awake after that, just listening to Cas breathe, knowing he wouldn’t get to have this for much longer.</p><p>Maybe Dean just couldn’t say goodbye to him. He didn’t know how. He was too cowardly to try.</p><p>He’d kissed Cas’ knuckles and told him he’d come back. Cas’ eyes were fluttering with a dream. Dean slipped out of the balcony door and climbed down the trellis, then packed up his belongings.</p><p>But now he was disappointed he wouldn’t get to say goodbye to Cas properly.</p><p>Okay, so maybe he sucked at leaving, after all.</p><p>“You didn’t think you could get out of saying bye to me, did you?” someone said as soon as Dean cleared the hallway into the foyer. He looked over his shoulder, already smirking. Jo had her arms crossed tightly across her chest, humored eyes betraying her phony irritation.</p><p>“You caught me,” Dean played along.</p><p>She picked herself up from the wall. A duster was hanging from her hand, and she brandished it at him. “You better watch your attitude, Wesson. One of these days, somebody’s gonna kick your ass.”</p><p>“You think it’s gonna be you?”</p><p>“Damn right.” Her smile faded slightly, expression becoming more genuine. “Seriously, watch yourself. We’re all expecting you back here in March.”</p><p>Dean nodded, suddenly feeling way too solemn. He dipped his chin, fist tightening around the strap of his bag. “I’ll be here,” he promised. It still felt like a near-impossible promise to make. He reminded himself this wasn’t actually goodbye. He’d see them all again. He’d see Cas again.</p><p>Just not today.</p><p>Clearing his throat, Dean looked up at her again. In addition to the warding in Cas’ bedroom, Dean had carved some into the floor molding of the music room. He’d even etched sigils into the base of the trees in Cas’ garden. He did the best he could to keep Cas safe. Other than that, hell, it was probably good that Dean was leaving because, just on the off-chance there were any other witches out there gunning for a Wesson, the safest place for Cas was as far away from Dean as possible.</p><p>That didn’t mean Dean didn’t hate leaving him so vulnerable. Not for the first time, Dean wished he’d told Cas the truth. At least then, he could have taught Cas ways to protect himself when Dean wasn’t around.</p><p>But Jo knew everything Dean did. He hoped she could keep a look out for the time being.</p><p>“Hey, you think you can do me a favor?” he said, not knowing why the mere suggestion of putting Cas’ safety into someone else’s hands made him nervous. He trusted Jo.</p><p>She shrugged. “Sure, what’s up?”</p><p>“Can you… you know, keep an eye on Cas until I get back?” His throat closed up. He just barely got the words out. He felt more defenseless and open for attack than he ever had been before.</p><p>Jo’s features rearranged into something like surprise. Maybe she hadn’t known Dean really did trust her, or maybe she didn’t know just how much Cas meant to Dean. But she nodded. “Yeah,” she said. “No sweat.”</p><p>Dean was marginally relieved. A moment passed, and he cleared his throat again to get rid of the tension that had fallen over them. “Okay,” he said as lightly as he could. “See you in a couple months.”</p><p>“You bet.”</p><p>Dean turned around again and headed toward the door. There were a few other people in the foyer—some maids dusting or clearing out the ashes in the fireplace. Someone rushed up the stairs with linens folded in her arms. Dean blew out his cheeks in an attempt to expel the funny feeling squirming in his gut. He stood up straighter to school his focus.</p><p>He felt like he was missing something. Like he’d left the potbelly stove on in his apartment. Like he’d forgotten to pack his favorite shirt.</p><p>He was reaching for the door handle when that feeling manifested itself in the back of his neck. Someone was watching him. It didn’t feel like it was supposed to: suspicion, paranoia, danger. It didn’t feel like that at all.</p><p>Dean looked around, eyes scanning the foyer and snagging on the mezzanine above. Cas was there, hands grasping the railing, eyes drooping despondently.</p><p>Dean thought someone had cracked open his chest and scooped out all the contents. They were currently laid at his shoes. He kept Cas’ gaze. He <em>really</em> wanted to bound up the stairs and kiss him silly, to assure him without words that he’d never <em>ever</em> leave him for long.</p><p>Instead, he raised two fingers in a small wave and hoped his smile wasn’t too shaky. Cas lifted his hand marginally off the railing and waved back.</p><p><em>I love you</em>, Dean saw him mouth. It made Dean’s smile stretch out, even though it was a sad, pained thing. His heart was pumping again. He nodded in response, and one corner of Cas’ mouth pulled marginally upward. It wasn’t much, but it was at least better than the gloom and doom that had been written on his face before.</p><p>Wanting to hold on to that image, Dean brought his eyes back down and pulled the door open to a blast of wintery air. He felt Cas’ eyes on him and, when the door closed behind him, it was like a heartstring had been severed.</p>
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<a name="section0019"><h2>19. Chapter 19</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>hello and welcome back! before we get started, i wanted to share <b>five</b> beautiful and awesome pieces of art that readers of this story created for this fic.</p><p>the first is this <a href="https://am-i-satan.tumblr.com/post/647196429133152257/show-chapter-archive">gorgeous art</a> by <a href="https://am-i-satan.tumblr.com/">am-i-satan</a> on tumblr. the <a href="https://valleydean.tumblr.com/post/647307971513237504/home-feels-like-his-arms-around-you-a-fresh">second</a> and <a href="https://valleydean.tumblr.com/post/647501388309495808/deans-bedroom-was-yellow-as-a-child-the-sun-took">third</a> are stunning poems that <a href="https://wayward-angels-club.tumblr.com/">wayward-angels-club</a> shared in my askbox. the <a href="https://dainty-dean.tumblr.com/post/646959867074166784/inspired-by-the-heir-and-the-groundskeeper-a">fourth</a> and <a href="https://dainty-dean.tumblr.com/post/647390947477504000/castiel-for-valleydean-tag-list-let-me-know-if">fifth</a> are these amazing poems by <a href="https://dainty-dean.tumblr.com/">dainty-dean</a> on tumblr.</p><p>thank you all so, so much! i'm in awe. everybody, show them some love!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
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  <strong>2020</strong>
</p><p>“<em>Spring came, and they had long days in the garden. For wherever the Boy went, the Rabbit went, too</em>…”</p><p>Jack’s head was resting on Castiel’s chest, his eyes following along as Castiel read from the book he’d picked out for his bedtime story. It was called <em>The Velveteen Rabbit</em>, and it was about a stuffed animal that longed to come alive.</p><p>Castiel was getting used to reading bedtime stories to Jack. He’d only been doing it for three nights, after Kelly had found him sitting in the rain on the doorstep and told him her living room couch was his for as long as he needed. He appreciated the gesture, and he hated the imposition. He’d offered to tuck Jack in on that first night in hopes that he could be of service. But he found that the nightly ritual calmed him.</p><p>He leaned back against Jack’s headboard, his legs crossed in front of him, ankles hanging off the end of the child-sized bed. Jack was pressed up against his side, his cheek on Castiel's shoulder. The room was dark but for the glow of the small lamp on the nightstand.</p><p>The wall behind the headboard connected to Dean’s room on the other side. Castiel tried not to think about that. He wondered if Dean could hear the sound of his voice, if Dean were even in there at all.</p><p>“‘<em>Fancy all that fuss for a toy!’</em></p><p>
  <em>“The Boy sat up in bed and stretched out his hands. ‘Give me my Bunny!’ he said. ‘You mustn’t say that! He isn’t a toy. He’s real!’</em>
</p><p><em>“When the little Rabbit heard that, he was happy. He was a toy no longer. He was real. The Boy himself had said it</em>…”</p><p>Jack yawned widely against Castiel’s chest. Castiel almost yawned, too. The room was cozy. His eyes were falling heavily.</p><p>Castiel licked the tip of his finger and turned to the next page.</p><p>“<em>That night, he was almost too happy to sleep, and so much love stirred in his little sawdust heart that it almost burst. And into his boot-button eyes that had long ago lost their polish, there came a look of wisdom and beauty</em>…”</p><p>Jack yawned again. Castiel couldn’t fight back his urge to follow in suit that time. When he glanced down, Jack’s eyes were closed.</p><p>Castiel closed the book.</p><p>Jack ripped his eyes open. “Why’d you stop reading?” he whined sleepily.</p><p>“I think it’s bedtime,” Castiel told him, scooting out from under Jack. He stood up and leaned over to fix the racecar-patterned blankets.</p><p>“I’m not tired!” Jack lied.</p><p>Castiel shot him a skeptical look. “Your mother won’t like it if you don’t sleep. We’ll both get in trouble.”</p><p>“We don’t have to tell her!” Jack tried. Castiel was tempted to give the child what he wanted, but only for a brief moment. He glanced at the digital clock on the bedside table. It was just after 8 PM.</p><p>He took Jack by the shoulders and gently guided him down to the pillow. “We’ll finish the book tomorrow, if you’d like. Now, sleep.”</p><p>Sighing, Jack acquiesced. “Okay, Cas.”</p><p>Castiel pressed his hand to the crown of Jack’s head and mussed up his hair. Jack giggled sweetly before settling against his pillows. He hugged his teddy bear to his chest. Castiel moved to the door, one hand on the knob and the other poised over the light switch.</p><p>“Cas?” he heard Jack’s small voice ask. He turned around in question. “Do you live with us now?”</p><p>The question had been unexpected, but maybe it shouldn’t have been. All of this must have been very confusing to Jack. In fact, it was confusing to Castiel.</p><p>Castiel opened his mouth, not quite knowing how to answer. “No, Jack. I’m… I’m staying here until I can find somewhere else to live.”</p><p>“I thought you lived with Dean.”</p><p>Hearing the name caused a visceral reaction in Castiel’s stomach. “I, um…” His eyes flickered to the wall behind Jack’s headboard. Castiel could feel Dean’s presence on the other side of it in the tips of his fingers and in the hollow of his bones. “It’s complicated.”</p><p>Jack nodded sagely, like he understood everything. “Well, I’m happy you’re here. I hope you stay forever.”</p><p>That, at least, made the barest of smiles pull at Castiel’s cheeks. “Goodnight, Jack.” He flicked the light switch, causing the lamp to turn off, and closed the door behind him.</p><p>He found Kelly downstairs, sitting at the dinner table with an open textbook and her laptop in front of her. She was leaning into her hand, a haggard expression on her face. Castiel knew she was studying for finals, just as Sam and Dean were. He didn’t want to bother her for long.</p><p>“Jack’s asleep,” he reported, and Kelly’s eyes flickered up to him over the glow of her laptop. A warm, tired smile spread on her face.</p><p>“Thanks, Castiel. You’ve been a big help.”</p><p>Castiel hovered awkwardly on the other side of the table. “It’s the least I can do,” he answered, suddenly ashamed. Again, he couldn’t help but to feel like a burden.</p><p>Kelly gave a groaning sound, but she didn’t sound upset. “Castiel, you <em>know</em> you’re welcome here! Really, it’s no trouble.”</p><p>“I know,” he lied. He wanted to thank her again, but it was beginning to sound disingenuous. He wanted to take Kelly’s words to heart, to feel like he belonged with her and Jack. More than that, he wanted to feel that with Dean.</p><p>Once, a long time ago, he thought he did.</p><p>Now, he felt like nothing more than the fog that drifted over the front lawn after the rain: unmoored and untethered, about to disappear.</p><p>Kelly pushed her book and computer to the side, clearing a path between them to stretch her arms across the table. “Hey, sit down,” she said gently.</p><p>Castiel’s heart swelled in the face of her kindness. He sat across from her, placing his hands on the table. She collected them in her own and gave a squeeze. “God, you’re freezing! Are you feeling alright?”</p><p>Castiel didn’t need her to mother him on top of everything else she’d done. “Apologies.” Remorseful, he tried to pull his hands away, but she only tightened her hold on them.</p><p>“No, listen. You and Dean will patch things up. I know it.”</p><p>She sounded so certain, even though it was nothing but wistful optimism. He hadn’t told her the nature of his argument with Dean, just that they were fighting. More than ever, he wanted to tell her the truth. Dean had told Sam and Charlie; Dean had people he trusted, confided in. Castiel thought Kelly could be that for him. Or she could think he was insane. He didn’t want to risk losing the only friend he had. He didn’t want to risk losing Jack, either.</p><p>“I wish you were right,” he sighed, staring down at their conjoined hands. Hers were small, but they warmed him up marginally. Dean’s mother’s ring was still on Castiel’s finger. “But, Dean… He…” He wished he could be honest. Instead, he said, “He’s not the man I thought he was.”</p><p>That wasn’t strictly true. Castiel didn’t know what to believe. He wanted to be certain that Dean was still <em>his</em> Dean. Even in total darkness, Castiel had once been so sure he would know him. But what Dean had said…</p><p><em>Maybe I should've just let him stay dead in that manor</em>.</p><p>His Dean would never say that. His Dean would never try to trap him, control him. Dean would never wish death upon him.</p><p>Or, at least, Castiel had thought so.</p><p>“Or maybe I never knew him in the first place,” he considered aloud, staring off into the middle distance. Dean had always kept his secrets. Castiel had been at peace with that. Even now, if it were true, he thought he could come to terms with Dean’s past—the Men of Letters, the killing, the magic. No matter what, he was willing to accept Dean, even if Dean couldn’t accept himself. But Dean willfully lying to him, not trusting him even now, using his past as an excuse…</p><p>Castiel didn’t know how to reach across the chasm that had formed between them.</p><p>He didn’t need Dean’s protection. He didn’t need whatever obligation or guilt Dean felt toward him. He just needed Dean—whoever that was—to give his heart a reason to keep beating.</p><p>“You should have seen the person he was before,” Castiel told her ruefully, remembering that man with dirt on his cheeks. The man who haunted him still. “He shone so brightly.” He still did. Castiel had seen it. Dean was still the most beautiful thing he’d ever held in his hands.</p><p>“Well, people change,” Kelly said softly, obviously trying to buoy his spirits. “They grow.”</p><p>Castiel gave her a weak smile, appreciating the effort. “Yes, they do,” he agreed. He thought of the flowers Dean had grown in their garden in the woods, their stalks growing in different directions. Castiel had never understood how that happened, how two things that shared roots could diverge like that. That one could turn its face to the sun while the other wilted and withered. The answer was, of course, that they were different flowers.</p><p>Same roots. Different bloom.</p><p>“But if someone changes enough, can they still be considered the same person?” Was the man he loved truly dead, buried inside Dean Winchester? He couldn’t be. Castiel still saw him when the light hit just right.</p><p>But he, more than anyone, knew it was possible for something to be both alive and dead at the same time.</p><p>Castiel realized, in all those years alone, he’d never truly mourned Dean. He’d never let him go. Maybe that’s all a ghost was.</p><p>Kelly’s hands tightened in sympathy. “I’m sorry.”</p><p>Castiel’s chest felt as empty as an open grave awaiting for the pallbearers to lower a casket inside. “As am I.”</p><p>Slowly, Castiel lifted his hands out of Kelly’s. “I won’t keep you,” he said, glancing at her homework. She nodded, and he stood up, pushing the chair back into the table.</p><p>He moved into the living, where a pillow and folded blanket were set on one of the couch’s cushions. A window sat directly behind the couch, and Castiel could see the Impala’s sleek black metal reflecting in the moonlight through it.</p><p>He picked up the book Kelly had lent him from the coffee table—an old textbook about the history of American politics from her freshman year. He plopped down on the couch and ran his palm down the smooth, glossy cover. His wedding ring knocked against it. Castiel considered taking it off, but he wasn’t quite ready to admit defeat yet.</p><p>Besides, some irrational part of him feared that, if he did remove it, he’d find himself back in the manor—skin transparent, breath gone, unable to feel the sunshine.</p><p>He glanced back out the window, looking up at the paltry stars that managed to shine through the black sky. There were so few of them, their light weak, billions of lightyears away. Castiel wondered if those celestial bodies even still existed, or if he was looking at nothing but echoes. Ghosts.</p><p>Shaking the thought away, he opened his book. He was tired, but he didn’t want to sleep. Not without Dean. If he did, he might close his eyes to the darkness and never wake up.</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p> </p><p>The next day, Castiel spent the majority of the morning restocking the shelves at work. He was frequently interrupted by customers coming in to purchase snacks and coffee, cigarettes and lottery tickets, or to ask him to turn on one of the gas pumps outside. Two hours into his shift, he was ready to go home.</p><p>But he didn’t have a home.</p><p>What he did have was a poor night’s sleep and sore ankles from constantly going back and forth from the cash register to his restocking duties. The bags under his eyes were dark, making his face look sunken and ashy. His bones were heavy around him; his limbs were deadweight.</p><p>Thankfully, he wasn’t working a double that day. He could leave in the afternoon and head back to Kelly’s. Maybe it would be easier to sleep while the sun was still out, when he knew there was daylight on the other side of his eyelids.</p><p>Until then, he occupied himself with the repetitive task of reaching into the cardboard box full of potato chip bags at his feet and lining them up on the shelves. Nora was in the back room taking inventory. Every now and again, she would emerge with another box of merchandise or to ask Castiel a question on when the next delivery for a certain product was due. But, for the most part, he was alone with his thoughts.</p><p>He wasn’t certain if that was a good thing or a bad thing.</p><p>When the bell over the door buzzed, announcing the arrival of a new customer, Castiel firmly decided that he absolutely would rather be left alone.</p><p>He sighed, standing upright, a bag of chips in either hand, to greet the customer with as much cheerfulness as he could possibly muster. “Good morning. Welcome to—” His breath caught when he saw who had entered the store.</p><p>Dean caught sight of him over the top of the shelves, and a bright, phony grin cracked his features. Castiel averted his eyes to the floor. His pulse had sped up, mind buzzing frantically. Suddenly, he felt too warm. His fingers tensed furiously around the crinkling bags, but there was a rush inside of him as Dean sauntered into the aisle—an undeniable thrill that made Castiel come alive just by simply being in Dean’s presence. Colors seemed more vibrant, the aroma of the burned coffee in the machine was more robust, sweeter.</p><p>“What do you want?” Castiel asked, still not looking at him no matter how much he wanted to. He’d wondered when Dean would show his face, <em>if</em> he’d show his face. He’d even been hoping for it. As the days progressed, he assumed his prayers had been in vain. Now, part of him wished they were.</p><p>“Nice to see you, too,” Dean said, a slight irritation shading the humor in his voice. “It’s been a while.”</p><p><em>Four days</em>, Castiel almost said aloud. He wished he could leave. Whatever conversation was about to ensue, he doubted it would be appropriate for his place of business. But maybe that was the point. Maybe Dean had wanted to corner him.</p><p>“You look, uh…” Dean started, obviously trying and failing to be polite. “Well, you look like shit, Cas.”</p><p>Castiel shoved the bags of chips onto the shelves and bent down to get the rest of them from the box. There were six, and he had to balance them precariously against his chest, but it suddenly seemed urgent that he finish quickly and get behind the counter to put space between himself and Dean.</p><p>“I’m working,” he gritted out, knowing it would fall on deaf ears.</p><p>“Yeah, I can see that,” Dean said, waving his hand up and down Castiel’s person. “I’m still diggin’ the vest.”</p><p>The chip bags were aligned messily, but Castiel didn’t care. He picked up the empty cardboard box from the floor and turned around to exit from the opposite end of the aisle so he wouldn’t have to squeeze past Dean. “Thank you. What do you want, Dean?”</p><p>“What do you think? To talk to <em>you</em>.” Dean tailed after him all the way to the counter. Briefly, Castiel thought Dean would follow him behind it. Instead, he went to the other side and placed his hands on the mat advertising the gas station’s new breakfast burrito.</p><p>Castiel tossed the box haphazardly into the corner. “I’m busy,” he said pointedly, and it was at that moment he realized he shouldn’t have been so quick to finish restocking. He had nothing to do now except look at Dean, and he was trying to avoid doing that.</p><p>Dean let out a loud, exasperated breath. “Come on, Cas. This is stupid! Come home.”</p><p>Castiel squared his jaw and showed Dean the side of his face. He squinted out the front window at a customer filling up their car’s tank.</p><p>“Look, I know you’re staying with Kelly and the kid,” Dean told him levelly. “So, why not just come back? What difference does a couple of feet make? I can sleep on the couch, if it makes you feel better. Would <em>that</em> make you happy?”</p><p>Castiel’s head snapped toward him, eyes burning. Is that <em>really</em> what Dean thought he wanted?</p><p>Dean challenged his glare for a moment before deflating. He put his elbows on the counter and sunk his head into his hands. “Cas, come on,” he said again, wearily that time. He rubbed at his eyes. Castiel’s chest caved at the sight, and he almost gave in to what Dean wanted. “What do you want from me?”</p><p>Castiel didn’t want anything from him. At the same time, he wanted so many things.</p><p>Mostly, he just wanted to go back to the way things were before.</p><p>“You said you’d prefer it if I stayed dead,” he said, the words dragging like ice down his back. There was a twisting in his gut akin to the dull point of a knife.</p><p>Dean’s eyes fell closed. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he defended quickly. Castiel wanted to laugh, because there weren’t very many positive ways one could interpret that.</p><p>“I know how you meant it,” he said flatly. “You want to control me.” Dean wanted to keep Castiel under his thumb, to govern his every move, to not let him live his life now that he finally had one. And he thought he was being noble.</p><p>“I don’t—Look, okay. It was a fucked up thing to say,” Dean allowed, standing up straight. “But, come on, man. Like you didn’t say fucked up shit, too! I mean, you don’t <em>really</em> think I’m not—not <em>me</em>, do you?”</p><p>Castiel dropped his shoulders. He stared down at his hands on the counter, palms spread out on the linoleum to keep him from toppling over. He couldn’t see the hurt in Dean’s eyes when he said, “I don’t know.” A piece of him almost wished Dean wasn’t <em>his</em> Dean. “But I <em>do</em> know you… you’re…”</p><p>Dean’s brows shot up to his hairline expectantly.</p><p>“Different,” Castiel finished lamely.</p><p>Expression rearranging again, anger overcame Dean’s tone: “Yeah, because now I got <em>two</em> lifetimes worth of baggage to deal with it. And, sorry, but some of us <em>haven’t</em> had over a century to deal with that!”</p><p>Castiel didn’t know how to argue that point, but he was tired of being patient. He supposed that was his own fault. He’d always imagined, if he ever did find Dean again, that they would be able to build the life they’d always wanted together. That they could pick up where they’d left off, unburdened by the past.</p><p>He’d been so wrong.</p><p>“Hey, Castiel?”</p><p>Both Castiel and Dean’s necks swiveled toward Nora. She was standing toward the back of the store, clipboard in hand. Her eyes moved curiously between the two of them, and she must have known she was interrupting something tense.</p><p>Castiel was ashamed. Trying not to sound sheepish, he said, “Nora. This… this is my…” He wasn’t quite certain what to call Dean at the moment.</p><p>“Husband,” Dean supplied aggressively. His eyes flashed down pointedly to the ring on Castiel’s finger. Castiel thinned his lips and slipped his hands off the counter and out of sight. Dean’s attention was on Nora, anyway. Another forced smile was on his face. “I’m his husband.”</p><p>“Oh,” Nora said, eyes widening in relief. She paced closer to the counter. “Dean, right?”</p><p>Dean nodded. “Yup, that’s me.” He pointed. “Nora?”</p><p>She smiled gently, pleased. “Yeah.” Her attention shifted to Castiel. “Sorry to interrupt. But, Castiel, did you bring a box of Hersey bars up here? I only saw four in the back.”</p><p>Castiel looked around underneath the counter, happy to have something to focus on. “Yes,” he said, picking up the small box from the shelves and placing it on the counter. “We’re almost out on the display case. I brought it here before it became empty.”</p><p>“Great, thanks,” Nora said, satisfied. An awkward beat passed, and then she brandished the clipboard. “Well, better get back to it. Nice meeting you, Dean.”</p><p>“You, too,” Dean told her as she turned and disappeared into the inventory closet again.</p><p>Castiel wasn’t certain why, but the intrusion had shot his nerves. He didn’t have the energy to argue with Dean. He wished they didn’t have to <em>argue</em> at all.</p><p>“I have to get back to work,” he said wearily. “Can we discuss this later?”</p><p>“Sure,” Dean responded a touch too forcefully. “That mean you’re coming home?”</p><p>Castiel didn’t know if he was ready for that yet. Not before he knew he could trust Dean. “I don’t know,” he told the counter. He couldn’t bring himself to look Dean in the eyes, fearing he wouldn’t find Dean Wesson there—and fearing he <em>would</em>.</p><p>“So, ‘later’ means ‘never’?” Dean stretched out his arms. “You can’t avoid me forever, Cas. You’re on my healthcare plan!”</p><p>Darkness was creeping into Castiel’s vision. He felt numb but for the icy, raised skin on the back of his neck. He tried to blink the sensation away, but it only half worked.</p><p>“Is that why you married me?” he demanded. “So that I’d be beholden to you?”</p><p>Really, Castiel should have seen this coming. After all, when Dean proposed to him, the reasons he gave included citizenship and a joint bank account. Castiel had been so blind.</p><p>“No, I didn’t—” Dean grunted, rubbing his eyes again. “Would you stop putting words in my mouth?”</p><p>Castiel was finished with this conversation. He just wanted Dean to go away. And, more than anything, he wanted him to stay.</p><p>“I have to work,” he said, tone licked with ire.</p><p>Dean stared at him hard for a long time. Eventually, he shook his head and hummed derisively. “Have it your way,” he said, stepping back from the counter. Castiel stopped breathing. “I give up.”</p><p><em>Don’t do that</em>, Castiel wanted to say. <em>Don’t give up on me.</em></p><p>Dean's eyes were flinty, but there was something just underneath the surface that pleaded with Castiel. “See you around, Cas.”</p><p>
  <em>Don’t give up on us and I won’t, either. Show me how.</em>
</p><p>Castiel fisted his hands at his sides, the metal of his ring biting into his flesh.</p><p>Dean walked briskly out of the store, shoving his entire body against the glass door to leave. The bell buzzed.</p><p>Castiel’s lungs emptied of all oxygen. He closed his eyes, suppressing the urge to go after Dean. He tried not to think about the way his heart seemed to lay dormant in his chest. The way time itself stopped, as though Dean had taken it with him when he left.</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p> </p><p>After work, Castiel met Kelly and Jack in the park. He watched Jack scamper and skip along the path in front of them, occasionally rushing toward a bird on the grass, only for the creature to take off in a spooked flapping of wings. Kelly complained about studying for finals, and Castiel did his best to listen. His mind kept wandering, at points becoming devoid of any and all thought. Mostly, he thought about Dean. The look on Dean’s face before he’d left the gas station.</p><p>He hardly registered it when they stopped next to the pond so Jack could practice skipping stones on the icy water.</p><p>Above, the sky was flinty and the air carried the metallic scent of winter. Castiel barely felt the cold. He didn’t feel much of anything, really—just paralyzed numbness.</p><p>Jack searched the pond’s banks for flat stones, and Kelly often had to tell him not to touch the littered beer bottles and cigarette butts scattered around. Her voice was nothing but an echo from the bottom of a very deep well.</p><p>There was a sudden touch to his elbow. “Castiel?”</p><p>Castiel blinked the world into the focus. He found himself squinting against the weak sunlight, as if he’d just walked out of the darkness. He turned his face toward Kelly’s pinched expression.</p><p>He realized he hadn’t been listening to what she was saying. Shame churned his gut.</p><p>“I… What were you saying?”</p><p>Kelly snorted, brushing it off. She folded her arms over her chest and looked forward at Jack. The child threw a stone, and it immediately sank beneath the water. “Glad to know I’m putting you to sleep.”</p><p>Castiel thinned his lips with even more guilt. “I apologize.”</p><p>“It’s fine,” she sighed. “But are you doing okay? You seem…” She looked back at him in an assessing way, but didn’t finish her sentence.</p><p>Castiel ducked his head. “Yes,” he said, not wanting to worry her. Dean popped into his mind again. “No. Dean came into my work today.”</p><p>Kelly gave a surprised noise. She turned more fully to Castiel, eyes wide. “You’re kidding!” He shook his head, not knowing why he’d be <em>kidding</em> about such a thing. “About time! What did he say?”</p><p>Sensation was slowly returning to Castiel’s body. It manifested in a headache and cold, chapped fingertips. He shoved his hands into his coat pocket. “He wanted me to come back home. He said he’d sleep on the couch.”</p><p>Kelly rolled her eyes. “You’re kidding me,” she said again, tone more reproving that time.</p><p>“I’m… not kidding you,” Castiel told her, hoping it would clear up any confusion. He was, however, happy that Kelly seemed to share his thoughts on Dean’s solution to their problem.</p><p>From the bank of the pond, Jack shouted, “Mommy, I can’t find any more flat rocks!”</p><p>Kelly gestured a dismissive hand toward him, barely glancing over. “Just a second, sweetie.” She put her attention back on Castiel. “What did you say to him?”</p><p>He let his eyes fall to the grass between them. “I told him no,” he said apologetically, knowing it meant he had an opportunity to get out of Kelly’s hair and didn’t take it. “I hope that’s alright.”</p><p>She waved it away. “It’s fine. So? Did anything else happen?”</p><p>He lifted a shoulder, not knowing what to say. Nothing else <em>happened</em>, except for the possibility that Dean had given up on him. “No, I don’t… I don’t know.” He breathed out, his breath fogging around him. His hands formed tight fists in his pockets. “I may have wanted to take him up on the offer to return home but I…” He felt hopeless. “I don’t know what to say to him.” He didn’t know when that had happened, when Dean began to feel like a stranger. It occurred all at once; and yet, it felt gradual. Castiel couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment everything had changed.</p><p>Perhaps it was when Dean left him in the manor.</p><p>Kelly shot him sympathetic eyes. “You don’t know how to tell him what you’re feeling,” she interpreted. He supposed she was right. “Well… From what you’ve told me, he isn’t winning any awards for emotional conversations, either.”</p><p>He furrowed his brow, uncertain what that meant. “Do they give accolades for that?”</p><p>Kelly breathed out a laugh. “<em>No</em>. I just mean… I dunno, Castiel. Maybe he doesn’t know how to communicate what he wants, either.”</p><p>It seemed likely. More than likely. Still, Castiel supposed he’d never thought about it in that way. Especially because, “We want the same thing. Just… different versions of it.” And that was their issue. Neither of them were willing to meet in the middle. In fact, Castiel wasn’t certain there was a middle ground. Instead, there was no man’s land. If either of them attempted to breach it, they’d be shot down.</p><p>He thought of their imaginary house in Boston, and all the gardens Dean spoke of planting there. “We used to be on the same page.” He couldn’t fathom out what had changed.</p><p>Kelly seemed to ponder that for a long moment, and he was certain she wouldn’t know how to respond. He wouldn’t blame her. Perhaps there was no good advice for his and Dean’s situation.</p><p>“Yeah,” she said after a moment. “But… Everybody makes these grand plans. We all have versions of our ideal life. But that doesn’t always work out. Sometimes, there’s another plan for us—one we didn’t even consider.” She glanced briefly in Jack’s direction. “And we realize that the real version of our lives is even better than anything we could have imagined.”</p><p>He shook his head, wanting to understand. “What are you saying?”</p><p>“You said you and Dean want the same thing?” she asked, and shrugged. “Okay. But maybe both of you have to get out of your heads. Stop looking for what you want. Look at what you have. Maybe you already have what both of you need to be happy.”</p><p>It seemed so obvious when she said it like that. Perhaps it wasn’t a matter of filling the divide between them. Perhaps, instead, it was a matter of stepping off the edge and falling together.</p><p>Jack rushed up to their side, squeezing between them. Castiel shook himself out of his thoughts. “Mommy, can Cas help me find more rocks?” Jack asked, already pulling on Castiel’s hand.</p><p>Castiel looked down at him, a genuine smile forming on his face. It was nice to know for certain that <em>someone</em> wanted his company.</p><p>Kelly laughed, stroking her son’s hair. “Okay. But it’s getting chilly, so let’s not stay too much longer.”</p><p>“Okay!” Jack said brightly, seeming undeterred by the latter portion of what Kelly said. His grip tightened on Castiel’s arm, and he tugged him toward the lake. Castiel hurried after him, wondering when Jack got so strong. He glanced over his shoulder at Kelly, shaking her head in amusement.</p><p>“There’s some over here, I think,” Jack told him thoughtfully when they were up against the water, where a cropping of pebbled and stones had been washed up onto the grass by the rain. Jack kicked a few around, searching for a good one. Castiel crouched down, too, collecting a few in his palm for inspection—some were smooth; others with rounded edges.</p><p>In his focus, he didn’t hear Jack rushing up behind him. Jack jumped onto Castiel’s back, his arms going around his neck. It unbalanced Castiel, tipping his forward. He slammed his palms on the rocks to catch himself. Jack giggled wildly in his ear, his small legs hanging off Castiel’s back.</p><p>“Careful, Jack,” Kelly warned, tone flat.</p><p>“Did you find any?” Jack asked.</p><p>Ignoring the slight stinging in his hands, he turned his face to Jack. “A few.” He stood up, causing Jack to slip back to the ground. He dropped two rocks into the boy’s hands before brushing the dirt off his own. He looked at his palms, making sure the rocks hadn’t caused any damage. There was a hairline slice in the meat of his palm. The skin around it was bleached but it hadn’t drawn any blood. He rubbed his hands together to get rid of the loose dirt lining them.</p><p>“Okay,” he said, dropping his arms and turning his attention on Jack. “Let’s begin.”</p><p>He helped Jack with his technique, and Kelly cheered from the sidelines when Jack managed to skip one between two chunks of ice that bobbed along the water’s surface.</p><p>And Castiel realized that, for 150 years, he’d been waiting for Dean—and, in all that time, he never once considered that there were other things he should have been waiting for, too. Like this: an afternoon in the park with friends. It was something worth living for.</p><p>Still, it was a life he’d rather share with Dean. He considered Kelly’s words from before. Maybe she was right about his and Dean’s relationship. He just hoped, whatever he and Dean had between them, there was enough of it left to salvage.</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p> </p><p>Castiel stared up at the shadows on Kelly’s ceiling. The couch was slightly too firm for his liking, and it was barely long enough for him to lay down comfortably. He had to kick his legs over the edge. He wasn’t complaining. He was grateful for Kelly’s hospitality—but he did miss sleeping in a bed.</p><p>He missed Dean’s snoring, too, which was a strange thing to long for.</p><p>He wasn’t quite certain what time it was exactly, but it must have been close to 1 AM. Less than an hour ago, he’d been jolted back from the cusp of sleep by the thumping sound of blasting rock and roll music accompanied by the throaty rumble of the Impala’s engine. Tires had crunched on the gravel, and all sound was abruptly cut off when Dean turned off the car.</p><p>Castiel heard Dean drop his keys and curse angrily. He heard the backdoor of the Winchesters’ townhouse rattle closed.</p><p>He hadn’t been able to fall back asleep since. He kept imagining what might have happened if he’d gone outside and talked to Dean. But their conversation from earlier played in his head—as did what Kelly had said at the park.</p><p>She’d been right. Until they learned to focus on what they needed, instead of what they wanted for themselves, they’d be stuck in the same never-ending loop for the rest of time.</p><p>He wanted to try. He didn’t want to give up.</p><p>It took another few minutes for the beginnings of courage to sprout in his chest. The more he thought about Dean, the more that bravado grew into determination.</p><p>They could find a way back to each other. He knew they could. He would look Dean in the eye and know he was <em>his</em> Dean, and that he was worth fighting for. He also knew he’d lose his nerve if he waited until morning.</p><p>Quickly, he threw off his blanket and got to his feet. He slipped into his sneakers, not bothering to tie them, and into his coat. The frigid air outside hit him like a slap to the face, and for some reason it made him pause. Adrenaline was still rushing through him, spurring him on. But the coldness of the air told him that nothing lasting could grow.</p><p>The silver moonlight bounced off the Impala’s metal. The rest of the world was quiet and still. He breathed out of his dry lips, watching the air form and disappear before him.</p><p>Still, even in the face of the oncoming winter, there was warmth to be found. It spread through him, a small and flickering flame. He wasn’t alone.</p><p>Castiel turned his head and found Dean sitting on the concrete step outside his backdoor. A cigarette was pinched between his fingers, his arms hanging over his knees. He stared back at Castiel with guarded eyes.</p><p>It appeared neither of them could sleep.</p><p>Castiel shoved his hands into his pockets and approached slowly. Dean took a drag of his cigarette, the end of it flaring and smoldering. He puffed gray smoke out of his mouth.</p><p>“Hello, Dean.”</p><p>Dean shifted a little where he was sitting. “Hey.”</p><p>“May I sit?”</p><p>“I dunno, do you want to?” Dean asked him sullenly. “Wouldn’t wanna <em>control</em> you.”</p><p>Castiel steadied himself with a breath and let the comment slide. He sat next to Dean, their shoulders brushing. Even the small bit of contact between layers of clothing sent that age-old thrill through Castiel. He reached over, plucked the cigarette from Dean’s fingers, and took a pull. The smoke scratched down his throat, his first taste of tobacco since his resurrection. It calmed him significantly.</p><p>Dean smelled of cigarettes and whiskey. His eyes were glassy and the tips of his nose and ears were red.</p><p>When the smoke cleared, it was suddenly easy for Castiel to speak.</p><p>“Dean, I apologize for the way I acted earlier.” He hugged his knees close to his body and stared down at the gravel under his shoes. “And for what was said.”</p><p>Dean sniffed in the cold air. “Yeah, me too,” he said softly, genuinely. He turned his head to look at Castiel. Emotion was bleeding into his gaze now. “I didn’t mean what I said. I don’t… wish you were still dead.” He gulped audibly, collecting himself and averting his eyes. “I wanna take care of you, Cas—so you don’t think you gotta fend for yourself. And I know I did a shitty job at it. I came on too strong. I smothered you. I don’t—I dunno why I did that.”</p><p>Castiel knew why. It’s because Dean was afraid of losing him. Castiel was afraid, too.</p><p>Dean dug the heel of his palm into his eye. “There’s just so much shit.”</p><p>“Yeah, there is,” Castiel agreed. The chill of the night was seeping into his bones. He huddled closer to Dean, offering him the cigarette. Dean took it but didn’t bring it to his lips. The spindly smoke spiraled upward from the tip.</p><p>“You’re not the only one at fault here, Dean,” Castiel told him, resting his chin on Dean’s shoulder. “I haven’t been patient with you. I didn’t give you the time you needed to adjust.” He tried to pick his words wisely. He still felt as though he were coming up short.</p><p>Shaking his head and staring off in the direction of the Impala, he tried: “I suppose… all those years that I was in the manor, I imagined what it might be like if I ever found you again. I assumed we would be able to forget about the past, to only have a future together. But it isn’t that simple. Everything that happened—everything we <em>were</em>, I… I wish it didn’t matter as much as it did.”</p><p>Dean sniffed again. It sounded wetter and thicker than before.</p><p>Castiel wanted to say more. He didn’t know if he had the right words.</p><p>“The truth is,” he considered, “Dean, I missed you for so long.” Sometimes, he thought it was the only thing that tethered him to the world, all the resilient grief. “And I still do. I don’t think I know how to stop missing you.”</p><p>Maybe Castiel had been inventing reasons to justify his grief by getting angry with Dean.</p><p>He drew away slightly, daring to look at Dean, to try to determine whether or not Dean understood what he was trying to say.</p><p>Dean shrugged. “I’m sitting right here.”</p><p>Castiel’s eyes were stinging. “I know.” It sounded hollow.</p><p>“No, you don’t,” Dean told him firmly, despite the fracture that ran through his words. He flicked the cigarette away. “How can I prove it to you, Cas?” He shifted, turning his body toward Castiel, their knees knocking. “Your name is Castiel James Novak. Your sister’s name was Anna. Your father’s name was Charles. Your favorite composure is Chopin and you used to spend hours trying to play exactly like him even though you sounded just great on your own. You sleep on your back. When you’re pissed or confused, you get these lines between your eyes that’re gonna give you wrinkles when you’re older.”</p><p>Something was swelling in Castiel’s chest. It pushed up his throat, pressing the barest of smiles to his lips. He could feel it glinting in his eyes.</p><p>He loved Dean so much. But maybe Dean had been right; maybe that wasn’t always enough. Because Castiel had carved a life in the shape of Dean, and he’d forgotten to leave enough space to fit into it himself.</p><p>He gathered Dean’s hands in his, hearing Dean shiver slightly. “I know you know who I am,” he said. Dean was the only one who ever truly bothered, who ever cared enough to see him as more than some transparent thing. “But I don’t know who you are.” Before Dean could even draw in breath to argue, he kept on, “And a part of me <em>does</em> know you’re you, Dean. And I want to accept you—but you don’t accept yourself.”</p><p>Dean swallowed again, tensing his jaw. He looked so small, lost. Castiel hated that he didn’t have the answers Dean sought.</p><p>“I don’t know how to get us on the same page,” he admitted.</p><p>“Me neither,” Dean told him, but Castiel already knew that.</p><p>He took in a deep, shuddering breath. He reminded himself to have courage. Dean was worth that. “We need to figure out who we are now. And to find our place in this life. I’d like for that to be at each other’s sides.”</p><p>Dean’s hands tensed around Castiel’s. “Then, come home.”</p><p>He wasn’t understanding. Castiel gave him a forlorn look.</p><p>Dean withered. “Why not?” he gritted out, clearly doing his best to cap his anger. But it wasn’t anger. Not really. Castiel knew that now.</p><p>“Because neither of us know how to communicate what we need from each other,” he reasoned. They were both so intent on clinging to one another, they failed to see the bruises they’d pressed into each other’s skin. “Even if we did…”</p><p>Dean scoffed, a touch of humor in it. “Neither of us would believe it,” he supplied, finishing Castiel’s thought.</p><p>“Yeah, exactly.”</p><p>It was almost funny, how much and how little they knew about one another. Dean both knew Castiel better than Castiel knew himself and didn’t know him at all.</p><p>“Maybe we both just need time to consider,” Castiel suggested. He didn’t know how much time. He hoped Dean did. He was willing to follow any instruction at all, but perhaps that was part of their problem.</p><p>Dean nodded, even though he didn’t look happy with it. Neither was Castiel. All he felt was sorrow.</p><p>He brought Dean’s hands to his cheek and nuzzled against them, then turned his face to kiss the heel of Dean’s palm, the pulse point of his wrist. He didn’t know how he could keep himself away from Dean. He was rendered numb when they were apart. But, when they were together, there was an ache in Castiel’s body. It had always been there, as sharp as the first breath after nearly drowning.</p><p>“Dean,” he said, holding the name in his lungs. “I will always love you.”</p><p>Dean chuckled thickly. “Don’t say it like that. Sounds like you’re breaking up with me.”</p><p>Castiel bit down on his lower lip and laughed, too. “No,” he said softly. He held Dean’s hands to his chest, hoping Dean could feel the beat of his heart.</p><p>“Okay,” Dean said, sounding somewhat relieved. “Okay, Cas.”</p><p>Castiel supposed there wasn’t anything else to say. Not at present, anyway.</p><p>“Get some sleep, Dean.”</p><p>More than anything, he wanted to crawl into bed with Dean, to share the air between as they slept, with each breath passing out of Dean’s lungs, into Castiel’s, and back again. He would do it if Dean asked. Luckily, Dean didn’t.</p><p>“Yeah, you too,” Dean said, not looking at him. He squeezed Castiel’s hands tighter and pulled them toward him to kiss Castiel’s knuckles. Then, he let go. Already Castiel mourned for his warmth.</p><p>Collecting himself, Castiel stood up and straightened himself out. He did his best to offer Dean a low-wattage smile. “Goodnight,” he whispered, almost regretting it.</p><p>Dean tried to smile back, but it was only a brief flicker. “’Night.”</p><p>In truth, Castiel didn’t know if they’d made any progress. He didn’t think he felt any better. He wondered what Dean was thinking.</p><p>Instead of asking, he turned back to Kelly’s door and began walking. The starless night followed on his heels.</p>
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<a name="section0020"><h2>20. Chapter 20</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>1868</strong>
</p><p>The metronome over the piano swayed hypnotically from side to side. It clicked out a steady rhythm, counting the seconds into dead air. Counting the seconds Dean was away.</p><p>Castiel had been staring at it. His hands on his lap, posture slouched. He stared and stared until he no longer saw anything at all. Heard anything. There was no ticking of time.</p><p>“…Castiel? Castiel?”</p><p>Castiel blinked, allowing the world to flood his senses again. Sunlight pooled into the music room, its reflection glaring off last night’s fresh fallen snow. The room smelled of coffee and biscuits. The metronome clicked.</p><p>He slowly turned his face, finding his father and both of the Allen siblings sitting around the coffee table. They all stared back at him, varying expressions of concern and confusion on their faces. Daphne’s cup hovered halfway to her lips.</p><p>Zachariah stood by the door, mouth pinched, looking at Castiel like he’d grown a second head.</p><p>In the corner, Jo Harvelle was dusting the bookshelves. She was glancing over her shoulder, a similar expression on her face, though something about it was riddled with curiosity. The serving maids in the room, there to pour more coffee and fetch more food should the need arise, only looked on with mild interest.</p><p>Castiel blinked again, more quickly that time. He cleared his throat.</p><p>“I… Yes. I apologize.” He furrowed his brow, trying to remember what they’d been talking about. The Allens had called around for coffee at eleven o’clock to discuss arrangements for the wedding. Before Castiel zoned out, he recalled them discussing a date. He wasn’t certain what they’d landed on.</p><p>He wondered if the topic had changed.</p><p>Sitting up straighter, Castiel said, “What are we talking about?”</p><p>“The… church,” his father said, tone uncertain at first. Quickly, he turned back to their guests and smiled. “Peter and Daphne here were thinking about having the wedding in Boston. Any thoughts on that?”</p><p>Castiel didn’t have any thoughts on it at all, except for one: Dean was in Boston at that very moment. Castiel wished he were there, too.</p><p>“Our grandparents live full time in the city,” Daphne added, eyes beseeching. “It would be hard on them to travel to Amherst, and I’d love for them to be in attendance.”</p><p>Castiel did his best to smile. He couldn’t quite muster it, and he couldn’t look her in the eyes. He did, however, find it in him to nod. Whatever Daphne wanted, he was happy to provide it. He wanted her to be happy, comfortable, content. It was the least he could do, because he could not love her. Worse yet, she had no idea what she was getting into. He felt as if he were tricking her, trapping her.</p><p>She didn’t deserve to be trapped with him. He wished he could provide her with an escape.</p><p>“Of course,” he said. “Boston it is.”</p><p>Daphne’s smile grew. She turned to her brother, the two of them sharing an excited glance. Chuck hummed around his coffee and hurried to swallow so he could exclaim, “Great! I know the bishop at Trinity Church. I think I’ll be able to pull a few strings to have the ceremony there.”</p><p>To that, Daphne gasped with delight. Castiel bit down on a sigh. Already, this was shaping up to be the most opulent wedding of the year. His gaze strayed to Jo, seeing her roll her eyes, likely having the same thought as him. For some reason, that humored Castiel slightly. It reminded him that Dean, too, would be groaning.</p><p>“That would be remarkable!” Peter said, reaching for Daphne’s hand on her lap.</p><p>“I’ll write to him immediately,” Chuck promised, setting his coffee cup down on the table. A moment passed, and he glanced around, like he was searching for any other matters of business that might be on the agenda. He must have come up short, because he blew out his cheeks and slapped his hands against his sides. “Well, I think that’s probably enough for today. Unless anyone else has anything to add?” His eyes swept back to Castiel. “Castiel?”</p><p>Castiel shook his head.</p><p>“Great! I’ll head to my study to get that letter going.”</p><p>The three of them stood up, and Zachariah stood to attention. Castiel quickly pushed back the piano bench and got to his feet.</p><p>“Thank you again, Mr. Novak,” Peter said, reaching over the table to shake Chuck’s hand.</p><p>“Oh, come on. Call me Chuck,” he responded jovially, taking Peter’s hand. “We’re family now, remember? I’ll walk you out.” He clapped Peter on the back, the two headed for the exit. Zachariah opened the door leading to the hall. Looking over his shoulder, Chuck added, “We’ll leave you crazy kids to say goodbye! See you later, Daphne.”</p><p>“Goodbye,” Daphne told him with a shallow courtesy.</p><p>Peter looked around, too, and said, “Goodbye, Castiel.”</p><p>Castiel pushed a low-wattage smile in response, but Peter and his father were already out the door. Zachariah followed them. At once, the serving maids honed in on the table to collect the leftovers, dishes, and cups. In the corner, Jo seemed to be dusting in slow motion.</p><p>Daphne lingered for a second, fiddling with her gloves between her hands, the fabric lolling limply over her wrists. Castiel’s eyes were on the floor. He had no idea what to say to her.</p><p>“Can you believe it?” Daphne said softly, pacing closer to the piano. Alarm shot through Castiel. He looked up swiftly. “Trinity Church. I would have never dreamed…”</p><p>He dipped his chin, guilt curling in his gut. “It’s the least you deserve.”</p><p>Her expression turned warm at that, like he’d just paid her the utmost of compliments. “That’s kind of you to say.”</p><p>He wasn’t certain how to respond to that. He glanced back at the metronome, still ticking away. His eyes followed its movements back and forth, getting lost in them. In the corner of his eye, he was distantly cognizant of a black mass hovering in the shadows of the room—swirling, seeming to form a shape. Something like ice was growing on the back of his neck, making the hairs there stand on edge. Something reaching for him—</p><p>“Castiel?”</p><p>He drew in a sharp breath, snapping his focus back to her. Behind her, the serving maids were gone. Jo was still there.</p><p>Daphne’s eyes were concerned again. “Are you feeling well?” she asked.</p><p>He cocked his head to the side, not certain what she meant. Physically, he felt fine. Of course, that was apart from the vast, hollow pit in his chest that had opened up when Dean left, the one that grew larger and larger every day, threatening to swallow Castiel whole. But he assumed that was all in his head.</p><p>“Yes,” he assured her. He thinned his lips remorsefully. “I… haven’t been sleeping well.” That, at least, was the truth. He found it difficult to fall asleep knowing he wouldn’t wake up to Dean. It made him wonder what the point of waking up at all was.</p><p>“I see,” she said, nodding sagely. “Neither have I.” He certainly hadn’t been expecting that. “I suppose it’s nerves, and… excitement. For the wedding.”</p><p>Poor girl.</p><p>Castiel lifted his chin up to the ceiling, looking away. “Yes.” He wanted to tell her the truth, that she should walk out the door and never return, that he couldn’t give her the love she wanted. He wanted to tell her to call off the wedding for her own sake. To not become trapped like him—<em>with</em> him—in this place for the rest of time. Because that was, undoubtedly, what would happen. She did not know it yet, but that’s what this house did. It created corpses out of the living, suffocating them until they withered and decayed, burying bodies long before they were interred in the cemetery out back. Long before they realized they were dead.</p><p>He opened his mouth, the words ready on his tongue. They died there, turning to ash on his lips, slipping back down to the graveyard in his chest.</p><p>“Well, it's a shame we can’t spend more time outdoors in all this cold. I think a picnic in the park and some fresh air would cure us both,” she said conversationally. “Maybe when the weather turns warmer?”</p><p>He bit down on his jaw, trying not to think about his and Dean’s picnics in their garden, and what those generally devolved into.</p><p>“Yes,” he said again, not knowing what else to say. Why wasn’t she leaving?</p><p>Seeming satisfied, she said, “I’ll go catch up with Peter, then.”</p><p>Thank God.</p><p>She curtseyed again. “Goodbye, Mr. Novak.”</p><p>Castiel dipped his head. “Good day, Miss Allen.”</p><p>She turned, heading for the exit. Castiel let out a heavy breath when she was gone and fell back onto the piano bench.</p><p>From the corner of the room, Jo snorted. “Well, that was awkward.”</p><p>Castiel turned his head toward her, lifting a brow.</p><p>Jo gave up the illusion of dusting and walked toward the piano. She parked her hip against it. “Hey,” she said, pointing her chin at him. “You seriously doing alright?”</p><p>Castiel rolled his eyes. He turned to face the piano, placing his fingers on the keys. He didn’t play. “I’m fine.”</p><p>“You look kinda pale.” She was relentless.</p><p>“I’m <em>fine</em>. Don’t you have cleaning to do elsewhere?”</p><p>“Don’t be a dick.”</p><p>He pressed his lips together apologetically. He hadn’t meant to take his frustrations out on her, especially because he had a theory that Dean had told her to watch Castiel while he was away. He’d spoken to Jo more times in the last month than he had in her entire time at the manor put together. Not that he was complaining. He understood why Dean saw her as a friend.</p><p>Benny, too. Of course, Benny left him alone, but Castiel had noticed that all of his favorite meals had been served over the last few weeks. Even the rare commodities for the season were made. He’d already had peach cobbler twice.</p><p>Jo let out a breath, a stray strand of hair that had come out from her ponytail puffing up. “Look, he’ll be back,” she said. It was the first time she spoke of Dean directly, and it confirmed Castiel’s suspicion. She <em>knew</em>. Benny knew, too, most likely.</p><p>Perhaps he shouldn’t have found that comforting. But it was nice, having allies. He was glad Dean, at least, had others he didn’t have to hide from.</p><p>“Not for another month and a half,” Castiel told her sullenly. He did not mention that he feared Dean would change his mind about returning and resign. Castiel supposed he wouldn’t blame him.</p><p>“February’s a short month.” It wasn’t as helpful as she thought it was. She shrugged. “And you could always drop in on him if you miss him that much right? Boston’s only a hundred miles away.”</p><p>It felt like the stretch of the Atlantic.</p><p>Jo leaned off the piano and walked backward. She pointed her duster at Castiel like she meant business. “Get some sleep. You look like death warmed up.” With that, she turned on her heels and left the room.</p><p>Castiel sat still for a moment, her words turning over in his mind. He supposed she was right. Boston wasn’t far. He could be there in two hours by train. Perhaps he could go there for a weekend, surprise Dean like Dean was always surprising him. It might help, just to see Dean again. It might give Castiel the peace he needed to get through the rest of Dean’s absence.</p><p>He could make an excuse, tell his father that he wished to see Trinity Church in person before the wedding. It would be a perfect cover.</p><p>Deciding, Castiel stood up quickly and left the music room. He didn’t stop walking until he reached his father’s office in the west wing. The door was held ajar, inviting him in. Castiel’s fist hovered over the wood, poised to knock, when he heard voices from insides that made him stop.</p><p>“We’re <em>sure</em> right?” his father said, tone completely <em>un</em>sure. Castiel paused, his heart jumping into his throat. “About… Daphne? She’s the right girl for him, right?” It might have been touching, his father’s concern, if Castiel weren’t being forced into this marriage.</p><p>Curious, he peeked through the crack in the door. Inside the office, Chuck was sitting on one of the chairs in front of his desk, posture slouched, elbows on his knees and head in his hands. Zachariah walked into view.</p><p>“Mr. Novak,” he said, tone full of encouragement and comfort. But there was something else there, too. Duty? Determination?</p><p>Chuck looked up at him swiftly and gave an aborted sound.</p><p>Zachariah deflated in a sigh. “<em>Chuck</em>,” he acquiesced. Then, he waved it away. “At any rate, we’re running out of time. Castiel is getting older.”</p><p>Castiel rolled his eyes, anger simmering in his gut.</p><p>“No, I know that—”</p><p>“And he and Miss Allen have a lot in common,” Zachariah reasoned. “I just <em>know</em> they’re an excellent match. Give it time. Even if it doesn’t happen prior to the marriage, I’m certain the two of them will be wildly in love within the year.”</p><p>For a brief moment, Castiel allowed himself to hope that his father wouldn’t be convinced—that he’d call the whole thing off. He considered barging in and telling Chuck that Zachariah was wrong. Castiel would never love Daphne. <em>Could</em> never love her. His heart—his soul, his life—belonged to another.</p><p>But Chuck gave a breath of relief, his shoulders relaxing. “They <em>do</em> get along pretty well, don’t they?”</p><p>Castiel let his eyes slip closed, all hope lost. Darkness before his eyes, he did his level best to swallow his sorrow. It got caught in his throat.</p><p>“Precisely,” Zachariah said. “Don’t worry, sir. Castiel will marry her, and they’ll have a family of their own, and everyone will live the rest of their lives to the fullest.”</p><p>Everyone except for Castiel. Everyone except Dean.</p><p>“Everything will fall into place,” Zachariah concluded, and if he thought he’d still have his job once Castiel inherited the manor, he was mistaken.</p><p>There was something at Castiel’s back—something cold and numbing. It traveled up his spine, the feather-light drag of a fingertip.</p><p>He opened his eyes. Inside the study, Chuck was nodding.</p><p>Castiel bit down on his jaw, tensed his fists. He tried to summon the heat of anger. All he felt was ice.</p><p>Castiel tried to think of Dean, to pull himself together enough to ask to visit Boston. He lost his nerve. Even if he hadn’t, Castiel wasn’t certain he’d be able to speak at the moment.</p><p>Abandoning the reason he sought his father out, he turned as silently and as swiftly as he could and walked back down the hallway.</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p> </p><p>Castiel’s arms were spread out like wings, and he’d been instructed to stand at his full height—chin high, chest out, shoulders back. It was an uncomfortable position to hold. He glanced at himself in the full-length mirror, only to see the dark circles under his eyes. His skin was gray and pallid, and he supposed that’s what happened to a person after one month, two weeks, one day, and ten hour’s worth of nights without Dean Wesson.</p><p>He let his gaze flicker down to the tailor, Marv, stretching himself as far as he could to accurately measure the width of Castiel’s shoulders. Marv’s wire glasses had slid down to the bottom of his nose, and he was currently making a scrunching face, presumably to hold them in place. Instead of correcting them, he only hummed and took the vertical measurement of Castiel’s back.</p><p>It seemed a little early to be measured for his wedding suit, considering the event was still nine months away. But, apparently, the ensemble was more complex than he’d imagined. Zachariah had dragged him into town that morning, and he and the tailor spent hours deliberating over textures and colors and patterns, waistcoats and cravats. It was all totally unnecessary, and Castiel wrongly assumed that bringing Balthazar along to make his decisions for him would make the morning go by more swiftly.</p><p>Apparently, Balthazar put far too much thought into clothing.</p><p>Castiel let his eyes drift toward the back of the shop, where Balthazar was currently holding up two pastel-colored ties that, in Castiel’s opinion, were the same shade. He watched his friend lift each up to his face in turn and check their color against his skin tone in a nearby mirror.</p><p>Castiel chanced a glance to the corner, where Zachariah was hovering. Zachariah’s gaze was hawk-like, hardly blinking. Castiel didn’t look at him directly. He sighed, his shoulders sagging. Marv quickly put a hand on his back and pushed gently to correct his posture. Castiel grunted at the intrusion and tried not to glare.</p><p>He wished Dean were there.</p><p>Dean’s sensibilities when it came to clothing had never been overbearing or confusing, and he was usually swift with his opinions. If Dean were present, Castiel would have been out of there hours ago. But, in truth, his stomach twisted at the mere thought of subjecting Dean to something like that. He was still half-convinced Dean would write him to tell him he wasn’t going to return to the manor, and that he wished Castiel a happy life with his bride.</p><p>Castiel couldn’t fault him for that. But the possibility still kept him awake at night. He railed against himself, because he knew Dean better than that. Dean was a man of his word, and he’d told Castiel he was returning. Dean would never leave him. Castiel would not have to endure this life alone.</p><p>But this—the wedding preparations—he <em>would</em> endure alone. Even if Dean were in Amherst, and Castiel was certain he’d offer his assistance in some attempt to convince the both of them that he was comfortable with their new life arrangement, Castiel knew it would have worn on him. Perhaps it was best to get all the planning and major details out of the way before Dean came back. If Castiel could spare him of that, he would.</p><p>“Alright, gentlemen,” Marv said, standing up straight from where he’d been kneeling over to measure Castiel’s ankles. Both Zachariah and Balthazar’s attention shifted to the tailor as he stepped down from the pedestal. “I think that’s all for the day.”</p><p>Relieved, Castiel let his arms fall back to his sides. He did his level best to not say <em>Thank God</em> aloud.</p><p>“Excellent,” Zachariah said, stepping forward. “We’ll be sure to let you know our final decision about color soon.” He snapped a quick, reproving glance at Castiel as he said it, and Castiel wanted to tell him he couldn’t care less.</p><p>After Marv bid them a good morning and walked to the back of the shop, Zachariah announced he was off to the livery to tell their driver to bring the carriage around. Castiel was glad to have at least a brief reprieve. The butler was so involved in the wedding planning, it was as if he was the one getting married. But it was all so he could report the proceedings to Castiel’s father. And, Castiel assumed, to ensure he wouldn’t run away in the middle of the night. Which became more and more tempting of a thought with each passing day Dean was away.</p><p>On their way out of the shop, Balthazar clapped him on the shoulder and teased, “What’s with the frowny face, Castiel? Lord. One might think this was a fitting for your burial suit.” He furrowed his brow, seeming to inspect Castiel further. “How <em>are</em> you feeling, by the way? You’re looking a tad sallow.”</p><p>Castiel huffed. The frigid mid-February chill instantly seeped into his bones the moment they reached the sidewalk. Dirty, browning banks of compacted ice still lined the streets from last week’s snowfall. Above, the sky was iron. A carriage rattled down the cobblestones between the rows of buildings, and Castiel only saw one pedestrian in the distance, her head ducked against the cold beneath her black cloak’s hood as she hurried along.</p><p>“I think I’m just tired.” Castiel didn’t look his friend in the eye as he made the excuse. It felt like a lie.</p><p>The tip of Balthazar’s nose was already red. He sniffed in the cold and commanded, “Well, cheer up! I should be the gloomy one, remember? <em>You’re</em> the one marrying the love of your life.”</p><p>Castiel bit down on his jaw, his idle attention on the distant pedestrian becoming unfocused, her visage blurring and darkening the longer he went without blinking. He wished he could tell Balthazar the truth.</p><p>The woman turned a corner, disappearing.</p><p>“Of course,” Castiel replied, and he did his best to muster the phantom of a smile. He didn’t think it worked.</p><p>Balthazar didn’t seem to notice, anyway. He looked around, dropping his shoulders in a breath of finality. “Well, I’m off, then. No use standing around in the cold. Do let me know if you go with the gray or the navy fabric—though, you already know my vote.”</p><p>Castiel nodded to at least pretend he gave a damn. Balthazar spun around and crossed the street, his hands in his pockets as he strolled away.</p><p>Alone, unguarded, Castiel expelled the breath from his lungs, watching it form around his lips. He closed his eyes, unable to stop the numbing chill from overcoming his clenched fingers and cheeks. He felt the cold on his neck, reaching for him, intent on wrapping around his throat, stifling his breath. He wanted to go home and sleep.</p><p>Quite suddenly, the touch became more solid. It gripped his elbow. Behind him, someone said, “Castiel Novak?”</p><p>Castiel inhaled sharply, whipping around. A flash of red hair arrested his vision, stark and vibrant against the flinty day. He blinked, stunned, at the familiar woman before him. She blinked back, seeming startled by his reaction. “Rowena?” he asked. He scanned the area, wondering where the hell she’d come from. The street had been empty, and the only means of access besides the tailor’s shop was a narrow alley between it and the stationary store with a <em>closed</em> sign in the window. But he could see no earthly reason why she’d be standing in an alley, unless she planned on sneaking up on him. “Where—”</p><p>“Ach!” she exclaimed, waving her hand. “Never mind that. I saw you enter town. I’ve been waiting for an opportunity to speak with you alone.” Her words were hurried, as if she thought someone would interrupt them. It caused anxiety to ratchet up Castiel’s throat. He glanced quickly toward Balthazar, finding him too far away to call to if he needed help. But why should he? Castiel didn’t <em>think</em> he’d have to defend himself against this woman.</p><p>“Why?” he asked, half-concerned and half-interested.</p><p>Rowena’s painted, cat-like eyes glanced around. “There’s no chance Dean Wesson is with you, is there?”</p><p>Castiel shook his head and narrowed his eyes in confusion at the same time. “Dean?” He remembered Dean had yelled at her during their last meeting, but Rowena hadn’t appeared too perturbed by it. If anything, she’d seemed annoyed. Now, she almost looked nervous. “No. What does this have to do with—”</p><p>“Nothing, nothing,” she answered quickly. She came closer, clutching at his sleeve to ensure his undivided attention—and she certainly had it. “Listen to me, Castiel. You must <em>stop</em> heading down your current path, do you understand? If you don’t, it will lead to destruction. Tragedy.”</p><p>Castiel pressed his lips together, forehead lining. Clearly, this woman was deranged. At first, he thought this so-called <em>tragedy</em> had been concocted as a way to gain money, but clearly he’d been wrong. She believed it. Castiel wondered if she was dangerous, after all.</p><p>“Now, normally, I wouldn’t care, but what I’ve seen is beyond comprehension,” she continued in her warning. Scandalized and alarmed, he tried to pull out of her hold. Her fingers tightened on his sleeve. “It will throw off order—<em>balance</em>. I’m referring to the forces of nature. Do you understand?”</p><p>There was the roll of wheels against stone approaching, and Castiel prayed it was his carriage. He circled his free hand over Rowena’s wrist and attempted to pull her off of him. “I’ll take that under advisement.”</p><p>“You must <em>listen</em>. Such magic cannot be controlled.”</p><p>He ripped out of her hold and backpedaled a few steps. He held his fists at his sides, just in case. Rowena looked back at him, eyes widened. The purple cloak she wore opened slightly to reveal the carpetbag hanging off her elbow. The same thick, ancient tome she’d used on the night of the séance poked out from the top.</p><p>Quickly, Castiel risked a glance over his shoulder. His carriage was close, but not close enough. He couldn’t just stand there and wait for it. He didn’t want to be around Rowena. Of course, she was delusional, but something about her words made Castiel’s blood pump frantically in his ears.</p><p>“Goodbye, Rowena,” he gritted out, and turned swiftly to pace toward the carriage.</p><p>Behind him, Rowena grunted in frustration. She called, “Stupid man!”</p><p>Offended, Castiel whipped around. He turned just in time to see her fling out a hand toward him. She said something else then, her voice quaking with authority, in a language he didn’t know. He barely had time to figure it out before his knees hit the sidewalk.</p><p>It felt like someone had cut his strings. He lost control of his body—and everything else. Blackness overcame his vision, and he could no longer hear the approaching carriage. He couldn’t feel the cold on his skin. In fact, the cold was coming from within. It clawed and clung and writhed inside of him. He felt nothing, knew nothing.</p><p>And then, suddenly, breath forced its way back into his lungs. He sputtered and coughed, blinking the light slowly back into his senses. As he did, he thought he caught a glimpse of something over Rowena’s shoulder—a shadowy figure cloaked in darkness. It was gone before he fully processed it.</p><p>The damp air was like razors down his throat. Behind him, he heard Zachariah jump from the carriage and yell something angrily. The sound of his shoes echoed as they slapped against the sidewalk.</p><p>It took great effort to crane his head up to look at Rowena. She appeared as taken aback as he was. Her eyes were stricken, jaw hanging open. Her face was ashen. Stumbling backward she muttered, “No, that… that can’t be. You—You’re not—”</p><p>Castiel heaved in bouts of air. He clasped his hand over his heart, hoping to steady the way it raged against his chest as though making up for lost beats.</p><p>“It’s already done,” she whispered, dumbfounded.</p><p>Castiel shook his head, not knowing what to make of any of this.</p><p>Rowena’s expression hardened, eyes narrowing. “Who did this to you, Castiel?”</p><p>“Castiel!” Zachariah’s call cut through the air. Castiel whipped around, startled by the noise. When he realized there was no threat, he quickly turned to Rowena. It was too late. Zachariah’s approach must have spooked her. She turned swiftly, cloak circling around her, and disappeared into the alley. Castiel tried to muster the strength to stand and rush after her, to demand she tell him what she’d done to him. And how.</p><p>“Castiel! Castiel! Are you alright?” Zachariah said, grabbing Castiel’s coat and hauling him up. Castiel swayed, still blinking. He hardly felt like he was aligned with his body. Zachariah was breathing heavily as he caught his breath, and he was checking Castiel for injury like a butcher might inspect a slab of meat for disease.</p><p>Apparently satisfied, Zachariah unhanded him and glared at the alley. “Was that the medium we once hired?” He shook his head and tutted. “That’s the last time we’ll do that. Was she trying to rob you?”</p><p>Castiel was barely listening. He placed his hand over his chest to make sure his heart was still beating. He tried to make sense of the encounter. Logically, he knew her warning was ramblings of a mad woman, but he couldn’t shake the feeling in his gut. And what had she said to him in that strange language? It wasn’t Latin or Greek. He thought it might have been Gaelic.</p><p>Most importantly, how had she rendered him numb? How had she made him collapse? He looked down at his wrist where she’d been grabbing him, inspecting it for some toxic substance that she might have placed on his skin. He saw nothing.</p><p>“Castiel?” Zachariah asked, and he actually sounded truly concerned.</p><p>Castiel shook his head, tearing his eyes away from the mouth of the alley. “No, I—She… I… I must have slipped on some ice. She… she had nothing to do with it.” That must have been it. Otherwise, the encounter was too strange to convey. Castiel tried to tell himself he was more tired than he thought. The lack of sleep was getting to him. He felt even more exhausted after this debacle.</p><p>“Well, what did she say to you?”</p><p>Castiel turned to Zachariah just in time to catch a flicker of something in the butler’s eyes. He didn’t know what it was—panic, perhaps, or wariness. It was gone just as quickly as it came.</p><p>“Nothing,” Castiel lied. He was glad Zachariah didn't press further.</p><p>“Hm. Well, let’s get going, then, shall we?” Zachariah told him cheerfully. The carriage rolled to a stop next to them on the road. The driver hopped down to open up the door. Zachariah hauled himself in first.</p><p>Castiel lingered momentarily, casting one last look at the alley where Rowena had disappeared. He shook his head, ignoring the unfurling tendrils of blackness deep in his gut, and climbed into the carriage.</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p> </p><p>Dean had sent seven letters in as many weeks. Castiel kept them in an envelope tucked beneath his mattress. Whenever one was delivered, he kept it in the breast pocket of his jacket all day, right over his heart, and impatiently waited for the rest of the manor to settle in for sleep before opening it.</p><p>He sat in bed, legs crossed over the covers, and unfolded Dean’s latest letter. The moon was bright as it poured in through the windows and spread over the floor, its light as cold and pale and clean as flesh in an open coffin for mourners to pay tribute to. A shroud of wispy clouds hung over it.</p><p>In the hand not holding the letter, Castiel fiddled with the ring Dean had given him. Each day, he wore the ring on a chain around his neck, tucked and guarded beneath his shirt. Now, he ran the pad of his thumb over the smooth surface and twirled it between his fingers. It was nights like these, with a new letter and the promise that the ring afforded in mind, that Castiel found Dean’s absence somewhat bearable. But that was only because he felt Dean’s presence—heard Dean’s voice as he read his words.</p><p>On nights like these, it almost felt like Dean was in reach. Castiel imagined there was a string tied to his chest that could pull him toward the other end of it, roped around Dean. It would lift them up, above the miles in between them, suspending them among the stars. Below them, time itself would fold like a map, and Castiel needn’t bear another second before Dean returned to him.</p><p>
  <em>Dear Mr. Novak,</em>
</p><p><em>Before I forget, Sammy says hi. He told me to tell you in my last letter, but I didn’t really think a mention of my brother paired too well with the rest of the letter’s contents.</em> </p><p>
  <em>Anyway, hope you kicked Balthazar’s ass at skeet shooting last week. (Are you still shooting a little to the left?) Things have been pretty quiet here. Bobby roped me into organizing his library over the weekend. You should see the amount of books he has! Probably more than you have. Maybe one day, I’ll get him to show you. He’s a grouch, but he’ll warm up to you. There’ll be plenty of time for that when you build that mansion in Boston.</em>
</p><p>Castiel almost rolled his eyes. He didn’t know how many times he had to tell Dean that he’d still be living in the manor after the wedding. His father was to move to the townhouse he kept in the city. Chuck had spoken of that a number of times now, saying the manor was too big for one person. Better suited for a family. Castiel secretly hoped his father would change his mind so he could move out instead.</p><p>It appeared neither he nor his father wished to spend the rest of their lives in this house.</p><p>Sometimes, Castiel allowed himself to daydream about his own home on the outskirts of the city. A home with Dean. The thought of it caused a dull ache.</p><p>He shook it away and continued to read the letter. Dean rambled on for a little while about Sam’s schooling, every line laced with pride. He spoke of the blackjack game he’d won. He wrote about a few ideas he had for the gardens, and the variants of flowers he’d plant in them in the spring because he thought Castiel would like them.</p><p>
  <em>Which reminds me—I hope your garden isn’t too snowed in. I’ll probably have my work cut out for me when I get back. Have you gone there since winter started? Tell me the truth. How bad is it?</em>
</p><p>Castiel had been to the garden a handful of times since Dean left. Some days, it comforted him. Other days, it filled him with a cold melancholy as raw and frigid as the winter winds. On those instances, missing Dean was too great a burden.</p><p>The last time he’d gone, the bench was a mound beneath the piles of snow and the stream trickled under a top layer of ice. He assumed he wouldn’t know if there was any damage until the snows melted.</p><p>
  <em>Well, it’s getting late. I better go before I pass out writing this. I’ll look for your return letter.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>One last thing. Did you see the portrait I put in the envelope? Me and Sam were going through a few boxes of old photographs at Bobby’s and found it. I thought you could put it to good use while I’m gone. Wish I had one of you for when I get lonely. Guess I’ll just have to keep using my imagination.</em>
</p><p><em>Forever yours,<br/></em> <em>Mr. Wesson</em></p><p>Furrowing his brow, Castiel set the letter to the side and peered into the envelope it had come in. Inside, tucked against the back, was the photograph Dean had written about. Castiel eagerly pulled it out and held it gingerly up to the light.</p><p>It was Dean’s military portrait from the war. He looked much younger somehow, though it could have only been a few years old. It was a dashing photograph. Castiel traced the curves of Dean’s face with his fingertips, the hollow in his chest filling up with something too big to name. He wished he could see the green of Dean’s eyes.</p><p>He flipped over the photograph, reading the handwritten inscription on the back.</p><p><em>Sergeant D. Wesson</em><br/><em>13<sup>th</sup> Mass Infantry Regiment<br/></em> <em>1863</em></p><p>Carefully setting the letter and the photograph to the side, Castiel unfolded his legs from under him and got out of bed. He pulled a sheaf of paper and a fountain pen out from the top drawer of his nightstand, set it on the surface, and considered what to write.</p><p>Briefly, his mind strayed back to that afternoon in town when he’d run into Rowena. It had been a little under a week since that day, and it still weighed on Castiel’s mind when he allowed it to. He wondered if he should mention it in his letter. He didn’t want to, and he wasn’t quite certain why.</p><p>He’d lie in bed some night, his mind turning around Rowena’s words, the look on her face, the ancient language she’d shouted at him. Mostly, he wondered what had come over him to render him to his knees. Shock? Or perhaps he really had slipped?</p><p>The whole experience had been difficult to explain, even to himself. Perhaps that was why he didn’t want to alarm Dean. Dean never seemed comfortable around Rowena; this would only needlessly concern him when no real harm had been done. Castiel was fine. There were better things to write about, anyway.</p><p>He set the pen to paper.</p><p>
  <em>Dear Mr. Wesson…</em>
</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p> </p><p>Early March was swept in on a warm breeze. The mornings were heralded in by birdsong. Each evening, the sunlight lasted just a little longer. The snow melted to green grass and blue sky. The scent of fresh soil in the air reminded Castiel of Dean, but then again, so did everything else.</p><p>He longed to sit in their garden and let the sun touch his skin, to let the fresh air fill up his lungs. Every time he tried, he couldn’t quite feel the warmth; oxygen sat heavy and stagnant in his gut. He counted down the days until Dean returned with the spring equinox.</p><p>That morning, Castiel was awoken to a knock on the door telling him the tailor was there with his wedding suit. He was to try it on for alterations. However, looking in the full-length mirror that sat in the corner of his bedroom, he was certain there must have been some mistake. Marv must have brought the wrong suit. It was too loose around the waist, and he felt as if his shoulders were swimming in the jacket.</p><p>Still, he could imagine what it might look like as he stood on the altar and left the church a married man. The deep black of the suit made his skin seem pallid in comparison and the circles under his eyes too dark. He pressed his lips together, gaze trailing up and down his reflection. It caused the skin on the back of his neck to go numb. Those icy fingers licked at him, a hair’s breadth away from touching him.</p><p>He hadn’t realized he’d been staring until there was a pounding knock at the door. He jumped, sensation instantly returning to him. A wave of nausea crashed into him.</p><p>He couldn’t do this.</p><p>He should have run with Dean when he had the chance.</p><p>“Castiel?” his father called from the other side of the door. He, Zachariah, and Marv were waiting in the hallway while Castiel dressed. “You okay in there?”</p><p>Castiel cast one more glance at the mirror, unable to look at himself directly in the eye. He felt drained of color. His irises even appeared cloudy and pale for a brief moment. Gritting his teeth against the roiling in his gut, he did his best to force his doubt away. It was getting harder and harder to find a reason to do that.</p><p>But Dean was the reason. If they <em>did</em> run, and if they <em>were</em> found, it was Dean who would pay the consequences. Castiel would rather shackle himself to his father’s wishes than to risk Dean.</p><p>“Yes,” he called, the word getting stuck in his throat. “I… Come in.”</p><p>The hinges of the door creaked when it opened. Chuck stuck his head in, his eyes landing on Castiel. A wide, sunny grin spread on his face. “Hey, look at you!” Castiel did his best to offer a weak, shaky smile in return. Chuck opened the door wider, stepping in. Zachariah and Marv followed dutifully after him.</p><p>Castiel turned away from the mirror to show them the suit. “It feels…”</p><p>“Way too big,” Chuck finished for him, his smile replaced with a pensive expression now that he was closer. He looked around at the other two men. “Why’s it so big?”</p><p>Zachariah hummed in consideration. He shifted blame to the tailor by accusing, “I thought you took measurements.”</p><p>“I most certainly did. You saw me do it yourself, sir,” Marv said indignantly. He walked around Castiel, and Castiel jolted and grunted when the fabric of the suit jacket was unexpectedly pulled back. “It’s possible my measurements were off… But better too much fabric than too little where alterations are concerned.” Castiel strained to look over his shoulder to see what Marv was doing. He felt him pinching the fabric together with pins pulled from the vest he wore.</p><p>“I’d say there’s about two inches of excess fabric,” Marv said. Without asking, he put his hands under Castiel’s arms and made Castiel hold them up. Castiel tried not to glare. The tailor wasn’t even looking at him, anyway. He was too busy pinning together the loose fabric on the sleeves.</p><p>“My measurements usually aren’t so off,” he mused.</p><p>“I would hope not!” Zachariah snorted snidely. “You came highly recommended. Unless I’ve been steered in the wrong direction?”</p><p>Castiel wondered if he could get away with an eye roll.</p><p>Before Marv could defend himself, Chuck held up a hand and said, “Well, hang on a second. Maybe we’re getting ahead of ourselves.” He walked closer, gaze fixed on Castiel’s face like he was inspecting him. “Are you feeling okay, Castiel?”</p><p>Apart from his arms getting tired, Castiel was fine. He huffed, just wanting this experience to be done. “I’m fine. Why does everyone keep asking me that?”</p><p>Chuck shrugged and let out a jumble of noncommittal, nonsensical noises. “You just, uh… you’ve been looking a little… or, you know, a lot... <em>thinner</em>… lately. Is all.”</p><p>Castiel narrowed his eyes in confusion. He turned his head toward the mirror. He looked fine—if not a little tired.</p><p>“You have a point,” Zachariah said, holding up a lofty finger. “He might be sick.”</p><p>“I’m not sick,” Castiel maintained. He dropped his arms, not caring if the tailor was done or not.</p><p>Taking it in stride, Marv dropped down to pin the fabric of the pant legs. The touch was much too personal. Castiel didn’t want anyone except Dean touching his thighs.</p><p>“Perhaps nerves?” Marv suggested. “The prospect of marriage is a daunting thing.” Castiel wanted to tell him he had no idea. “Exciting, yes, but it would make any man nervous.”</p><p>“Yeah, good point,” Chuck said thoughtfully.</p><p>“I feel fine,” Castiel told the room in general. Though, he had to admit, the more they talked about it, the higher the sickness in his gut climbed—up his chest, his throat, choking him. He wondered if his apprehension and fears were having a physical toll on him. He was sure it would all go away once he knew, for absolute certain, that Dean was returning to him.</p><p>Either way, he went ignored. “I’ll be sure to have Mr. Lafitte give Castiel larger portions at mealtimes so the suit fits,” Zachariah promised.</p><p>“No need,” Marv said, climbing back to his feet. He seemed to be finished. He put the extra pins back into his vest pocket. “I’ll bring the suit back to my shop and make the proper alterations.” He looked between the three of them. “Gentlemen. I’ll wait downstairs until you’re ready.”</p><p>“Thanks,” Chuck said, only half glancing around as the man started out of the room. Zachariah followed after him. When they were gone, he continued to linger, and Castiel wondered why.</p><p>He fisted his hands at his sides, wanting nothing more than for his father to leave so he could take off that wretched suit—and perhaps throw up.</p><p>Chuck lifted his eyes again, gaze assessing. “You <em>sure</em> you’re feeling okay?” he asked, and it seemed as though he were <em>really</em> asking. Castiel wondered, if he seemed earnest enough, if they could call off the wedding. But then his father stood a little straighter and assured, “Because, if you really are nervous, we could see about moving the wedding date up?”</p><p>Castiel had absolutely no idea how that would help.</p><p>“No,” he said, much too quickly. Chuck’s brows shot to his hairline. Attempting to calm himself, Castiel weighed his options between speaking the truth and holding his tongue. He breathed out, body going slack. “I feel fine, Father.”</p><p>His stomach felt too tight.</p><p>Chuck nodded, accepting it. “Okay… Well, I’ll let you change.” With one last wary look, he turned and left the room, closing the door behind him.</p><p>Castiel wanted to collapse.</p><p>He paced back to the mirror, getting a better look at himself. With the fabric pinned tighter to his body, it was even easier to imagine his wedding day. He wondered how the fittings for Daphne’s dress were going. The thought made him dizzy.</p><p>He couldn’t do this.</p><p>In the mirror, his drawn, gaunt face stared back at him. And maybe he did look thinner, a little paler, with his skin stretched thin across his bones. He let his eyes slip closed, and saw Dean’s face, the only light among the darkness, shining like a star.</p><p>Dean, who would leave again—eventually—disdainful of Castiel for forcing him into a life he did not want, as Castiel had been.</p><p>And Castiel wondered what was worse: the dread of <em>definitely</em> subjecting them both to a bitter, doomed life where they couldn’t be free and together, or the fear of refusing to obey and <em>maybe</em> getting caught.</p><p>There was a decision to be made. Castiel had been too passive in making up his mind. Dean, however, hadn’t been. He’d make good on his desires and leave Castiel behind. It’d only be a matter of time.</p><p>Castiel could not be without him.</p><p>He opened his eyes.</p><p>They had no choice.</p><p>They had to run.</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p> </p><p>Once Castiel made the decision to run away, he didn’t allow himself to waver. When his determination failed him, he’d look at the photograph of Dean or fondle the ring he’d been given, and he’d convince himself that this was the best option. When Dean returned, Castiel wouldn’t delay telling him. And, if it was still what Dean wanted, they would make plans.</p><p>With each passing day, Castiel became more certain. Even as spring began in earnest, he composed himself with a wintry calm. He sat through wedding planning and suit fittings and dinners. He endured the congratulations and pats on the back from people he hardly knew and were of little importance to him. He played his part. And he waited for Dean.</p><p>So, too, did he sit through meetings for the publishing firm, such as the one that was taking place that bright morning. Too bright, in fact. The sun glare was blinding, its light hitting Castiel’s face. His father had wished to hold the meeting, consisting of the two of them, Peter Allen, and three other men, on the patio outside as to “take advantage of the warm day.” Castiel didn’t feel any warmth. All he felt was irritable.</p><p>His mind kept straying no matter how many times he forced himself to pay attention. It was strange. He’d always asked his father for a larger role in the company. Now, it seemed he’d been granted that wish—and he wasn’t sticking around for it.</p><p>He might have even felt a little guilty about that. There was remorse, too, for Daphne—but he reminded himself she was better off without him. Besides, she still had her brother. She’d be fine. Guilt wasn’t something Castiel could afford.</p><p>“…And sales have picked up in the frontier thanks to the continued expansion of the railroad,” one of the men was reporting. The others nodded along. Castiel watched a carrion bird wheeling slowly against the bleached sky in the distance. Idly, he wondered what had died.</p><p>From the side of the property around the house, the dogs yapped, and Garth’s voice called after them. The grounds were otherwise vacant.</p><p>Until, out of Castiel’s corner of his eye, someone rounded the manor’s far corner. He glanced over—and had to do a double-take when he realized who he was looking at.</p><p><em>Dean</em>.</p><p>He sat up straighter at once, mouth falling open. If the other men around the table took notice, Castiel wasn’t certain. His eyes were fixed on Dean. Dean—whose duffle was hoisted across his back, who was walking with an easy, familiar gait.</p><p>Castiel’s heart rate picked up, slamming against his chest. He felt as if he were panting with how much breath filled him. The sunlight was a comforting weight on his face suddenly; the air smelled sweeter. There was birdsong.</p><p><em>Dean</em>.</p><p>As though he sensed he was being watched, Dean paused. He looked over, a beautiful smile spreading on his face. And, just like that, Castiel was breathless again. He swallowed hard, tensing his fists on his lap to stop himself from bounding across the ground toward him. The other men around the table continued to drone on as if something vastly more important than their work hadn’t just arrived.</p><p>Dean winked at him before continuing on. He stopped briefly at the well to fish out a bucket of water, and then made for the carriage house. At the bottom of the steps, he glanced over his shoulder at Castiel, nodded his head up to his apartment, and then rushed up the stairs. He disappeared inside.</p><p>Castiel couldn’t stand it. Dean was there. He was <em>there</em>—and he was out of sight. Castiel had to see him again, had to convince himself this wasn't a dream. He had to look upon Dean and never let him out of sight again, had to hold him and never let him go.</p><p>He turned back to the meeting. Before, he’d been excruciating, sullenly bored. Now, his distraction felt different. It was laden with energy. He had to bounce his knee in some attempt to quell it. It didn’t work.</p><p>This was torture.</p><p>He was forced to sit through five more minutes, which felt like hours. Through it all, he attempted to <em>will</em> the other men into speaking faster—and less—so they could leave.</p><p>Dean was there. Dean had come back. Castiel’s waiting was over.</p><p>Now, the only thing standing between them was a group of men talking about shipment schedules. It was almost comedic. When talk of business wound down, Castiel had to endure another few minutes of them laughing and chatting about the season’s opening horse race in a week’s time. It was hell. Castiel’s pulse was beating so fast, he thought he’d have a heart attack. He could feel himself sweating.</p><p>“Alright,” Chuck said with painful slowness. “If there’s nothing else, I think we’ll call it a day.”</p><p>If any man dared bring up anything else, Castiel was certain he’d murder them on the spot.</p><p>Thankfully, everyone stood up. Castiel shook their hands goodbye, not truly caring if his palms were sweating or if his salutations were rushed. His father continued to chat, walking the men inside the manor through the backdoor.</p><p>Castiel lingered, forcing himself to catch his breath. He waited impatiently for the door to close, for the sound of their voices to disappear, until he was certain he was safe. The dogs were still barking, the sounds of it echoing against the sky. Castiel flexed his hands.</p><p>He decided he was in the clear.</p><p>Half-sprinting, he made for the carriage house and bound up the stairs. His heart was in his throat. His ears were clogged with pressure. He didn’t even knock before opening the door.</p><p>Inside, Dean was standing over the table, his duffle sitting open on the surface. He was pulling out his clothes. He looked up, smile radiant enough for Castiel to feel warm all over. He basked in it.</p><p>“<em>Dean</em>,” he said, the name getting lost in a breath.</p><p>He was breathing. He could <em>breathe</em>. At last.</p><p>“Hey there, sweetheart,” Dean teased. He left the table behind to meet Castiel at the door. “You miss me?”</p><p>Castiel couldn’t speak.</p><p>All he could say was, “<em>Dean</em>.” He took a large step forward, filling the space between them. He clasped his hands to Dean’s face, now fully convinced that Dean was real—was with him. Dean’s arms wrapped around Castiel’s waist. They met in a kiss. Castiel clung to him, kissing him frantically, hungrily. Dean chuckled into his mouth.</p><p>Castiel kicked the door closed behind him and pressed further into Dean’s warmth. The familiar scent lifting off of him arrested Castiel, bringing with it a deluge of memory. He needed more.</p><p>He fisted at Dean’s jacket, pulling it off. Dean took his hands off Castiel long enough to shimmy out of the garment completely, and then they were back, deft fingers undoing the buttons of Castiel’s jacket. The press of Dean’s smile had faded, giving way to desperate kisses and short bursts of labored breath. They continued to pull off each other’s clothes, leaving them in a trail on the floorboards, as Castiel manhandled him toward the bed.</p><p>He pressed Dean into the mattress and sunk down on him, relishing in the touch of Dean’s skin against his, the way Dean’s muscles jumped and shifted under Castiel’s touch. Dean spread his thighs to align their hips. His palms roughed down Castiel’s spine, into the curve of his lower back, and groped his ass, dragging their bodies closer together.</p><p>Liquid gold flowed through Castiel’s veins, heating him up from the inside. Dean moaned into his mouth, sharing the sultry air in his lungs, filling Castiel up. They rolled into each other without thought, each instinctually remembering the familiar rhythm they’d always shared, like two celestial bodies crashing together to form the heart of the birthing star. It filled Castiel with building pressure, on the brink of explosion.</p><p>Castiel could hardly think. He wanted to be closer to Dean, to take him in his mouth, to be inside of him. But, more than that, he wanted to linger like this, to stave off climax, to keep Dean’s body pressed and pulsing against him.</p><p>Dean broke away from Castiel’s mouth to pull in bouts of air. His lips were red and swollen as they parted, cheeks flushed, eyes hazy. Castiel would never let him go again.</p><p>“I love you,” Castiel told him, voice unsteady, chest too small for all the emotion within it. Dean’s breath hitched. Castiel kissed his cheek, his jaw, his temple. “I love you. I love you.” There was nothing else to say.</p><p>He rolled them to their sides, Dean following easily. He hooked a leg over Dean’s waist and fit his hand between them. He wrapped his fist around Dean’s cock.</p><p>Dean called his name, his eyes fluttering. Castiel watched the pleasure play on his face.</p><p>Before long, Dean reached down to touch Castiel. It felt like he’d gone to heaven. He pushed himself into Dean’s fist. Air was difficult to find.</p><p>Dean came first, curses spilling from his lips like a fountain. The sight of him was enough to push Castiel over the edge. He thought he might have momentarily gone blind from it.</p><p>Their bodies stilled, leaving nothing but the chirping of birds outside, and panting breaths inside. Castiel didn’t know which sounded sweeter. He turned over onto his back and rested against the mattress, letting his heart rate ease. He tried to catch his breath. The warmth of the day touched his skin, adding to the film of sweat enveloping his body.</p><p>He wondered if Dean felt like this, too, when they laid together: like he’d just been remade.</p><p>Dean hummed in a laugh and rolled onto his side, into Castiel. “Well, hi to you, too,” he joked. The lines around his eyes deepened as he smiled.</p><p>“Hi,” Castiel said dreamily, pressing his fingertips to the crow’s feet. He thought his heart might burst with love for this man.</p><p>“No, say it right.”</p><p>Castiel hummed with amusement. “Hello, Dean.”</p><p>“Better!” Dean laughed, satisfied. “You got any plans today?” He splayed his hand on Castiel’s chest. Castiel wrapped his fingers around Dean’s wrist. “’Cause I was kinda thinking we should spend the whole day in bed.”</p><p>Castiel bit down on his smile and nodded. Whatever he had on his agenda, it paled in comparison to reacquainting himself to Dean. “I think that can be arranged.”</p><p>“Great! I’ll heat up some water to clean us up.” Dean pecked a chaste, lasting kiss to Castiel’s lips before drawing away. Castiel watched him pull the bed linen around him for warmth and slip out of bed. Dean grabbed the water bucket up from the table and sloshed some of it into a pot, setting it atop the potbelly stove.</p><p>Castiel couldn’t keep his eyes off the fluid movements of the muscles shifting in Dean’s back. His hair was clipped a little shorter than it had been in the winter. He was a little paler, dark freckles stark against milky skin. Castiel had missed him more than he could express.</p><p>He didn’t know how to miss Dean again. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. If they ever parted, all that Castiel was would fade away.</p><p>“How was Boston?” Castiel asked, sitting up against the headboard and adjusting the blanket around him.</p><p>Dean glanced over his shoulder briefly before returning his attention to the pot. “Yeah, good. Got up to all that fun city stuff. You know—drinking, gambling. Saw a few boxing matches.” He grinned. “<em>Won</em> a few boxing matches.”</p><p>Castiel suppressed a laugh, shaking his head to show his disapproval. But then an image of Dean, topless and shimmering with sweat, using his strength to knock another man down, filled Castiel’s imagination. He wouldn’t say no to seeing that in reality.</p><p>“And Sam? How’s he?” Castiel asked.</p><p>Dean picked up the pot and brought it to the table. He grabbed a folded cloth from a shelf and dabbed it into the water. “Still bookish,” Dean said, pride barely concealed in his tone. His eyes always lit up when he spoke of his brother. “He’s graduating in May, you know?” Castiel nodded. “He’s pretty excited to be a full-fledged lawyer.”</p><p>“I can imagine.” Castiel picked at a loose thread in the blanket. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Dean mopping himself up with the cloth. Castiel wondered if he should ask after Bobby, too, or anyone else Dean may have seen in Boston. But it was only a distraction. Castiel knew he was stalling himself. His gut swam with nervousness and uncertainty. He didn’t really know why. It had been Dean’s idea to run away. Hopefully, Dean’s opinion hadn’t changed in the last few months.</p><p>“What about here? How’ve things been?” Dean asked, ringing out the cloth. He brought it over to the bed and perched himself on the edge of the mattress.</p><p>“Uneventful,” Castiel said. He hissed slightly when Dean slapped the wet cloth against his torso.</p><p>Eyes downcast, concentrating on his work, Dean said, “Sounds exciting. Good thing for you, I’m back to liven up the place.”</p><p>Castiel said nothing. He searched Dean’s face. Didn’t didn’t look up, but his expression shifted subtly and his throat clicked when he swallowed.</p><p>“How’s…” Dean licked his lips. The fabric of the cloth scratched against Castiel’s skin as Dean brought it up a little higher, mopping up the sweat on Castiel’s chest. “How’s Daphne?”</p><p>Castiel knew what he was really asking. “The wedding’s in early November.”</p><p>Dean lifted his brows, feigning interest. Or perhaps he was surprised. “November? Wow. That’s—that’s kinda a long engagement, huh?”</p><p>“Yes,” Castiel answered. “She wants to get married on the same date as her parents’ to honor her father’s memory.”</p><p>Clearing his throat, Dean said, “Well, hey, that gives us a little more time, right?”</p><p>Time. Time for what? Castiel’s stomach jumped under Dean’s touch. His chest felt too small for all the emotion held inside. He wanted to know what was going on in Dean’s head. He wanted Dean to understand his thinking, too—because maybe they weren’t on the same page. Maybe something <em>had</em> changed in Dean’s time away, and he no longer desired to stay with Castiel.</p><p>Castiel couldn’t bear it.</p><p>At the same time, he was afraid of running, of leaving behind everything he’d ever known. He was terrified of being found—to always have to look over his shoulder, to settle into a new life with Dean only to have it ripped out from under him when he least expected it.</p><p>But he was more afraid of losing Dean now.</p><p>He wrapped his hand around Dean’s wrist, stopping his movements. Dean sucked in a sharp breath. His eyes flickered upward, something like panic flashing in them.</p><p>“Dean,” Castiel said. Dean appeared to steel himself for something. “Did you… When you suggested we go to California, did you mean it?”</p><p>Instantly, Dean’s features rearranged into cautious optimism. Voice thick, he said, “Yeah. Yeah, I did.”</p><p>“And Sam,” Castiel continued, a lump in his throat. “He’d want that? If we all left together after his graduation?”</p><p>Dean nodded, then shook his head. Swiftly, like he was trying to get his words out before Castiel changed his mind, he said, “Yeah! I mean, I’d have to ask him. But he always talked about—Yeah, I think so.”</p><p>Castiel wouldn’t change his mind. He had to be brave.</p><p>“I <em>won’t</em> lose you,” Castiel told him. “And I won’t let my father control our lives. We have to leave, Dean. We have to <em>try</em>. If you’re willing.”</p><p>Dean was nodding again, more quickly this time, eyes still shocked and mouth agape. But it seemed as though Castiel’s words were setting in. A breathless smile broke onto his features. “Fuck yeah, I’m <em>willing</em>. Cas—You… you’re sure?”</p><p>Castiel nodded. He felt like he was about to fall apart. And yet, he’d never felt more alive.</p><p>“I am.”</p><p>Laughter bubbling out of him, Dean dropped the cloth and fit his hands under Castiel’s jaw. “Okay,” he said, determination licking his tone and hardening his eyes. His gaze bore into Castiel’s—impossibly green. “Okay. I’ll write to Sammy, tell him what’s going on. He can pack up the apartment before he graduates. We can be gone by June.”</p><p>Castiel hoped his nerve would last that long. It had to. He cupped his hands on Dean’s shoulders, holding him tight, reminding himself what was on the line. “June,” he agreed.</p><p>Dean bit down on another grin. He was shining from the inside out. “We can do this,” he said, and Castiel didn’t know which one of them he was trying to convince. Maybe Dean was scared, too.</p><p>Castiel squeezed his shoulder in a silent promise to never let him go. He nodded against Dean’s hands.</p><p>“Yes, Mr. Wesson,” he said. “We can do this.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0021"><h2>21. Chapter 21</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>2020</strong>
</p><p>Saturday morning found Dean sitting at the kitchen table, his third cup of coffee and a half-empty pack of cigarettes in front of him. One of the cigarettes was held between his fingers, tip smoldering, over the cereal bowl he was using as a makeshift ashtray. He brought it to his lips and took a drag, letting the smoke fill his otherwise empty head.</p><p>It’d been four days since he’d last talked to Cas. He knew he was supposed to be <em>considering</em>, but the problem was, he didn’t know what exactly there was to <em>consider</em>. He already knew he wanted to be with Cas. He just didn’t know if he could be the guy Cas wanted him to be.</p><p>And how could he? Dean Wesson hadn’t even wanted to be Dean Wesson! And he hadn’t been the man Cas thought he was, anyway. Who Dean was now was the version of himself—the <em>lie</em>—that Cas had fallen in love with.</p><p>Or was he?</p><p>He honestly didn’t know anymore.</p><p>He felt like he was trying to reverse engineer everything that made him <em>him</em>. It was giving him a headache.</p><p>The door clicked open, and Dean glanced up, hopeful for a heart-pounding second that it was Cas coming home. But it was only Sam, back from his morning run. Dean took another pull of his cigarette.</p><p>“Dude, seriously?” Sam complained, not even saying hi first. “Enough with the cigarettes. I’m starting to feel like I’m living inside a chimney. Since when do you smoke, anyway?”</p><p>“Since the late 1850s,” Dean answered smartly, even though he knew Sam was right. He’d already finished one pack. He needed to stop before this turned into a habit he couldn’t shake. His body still didn’t have cravings, but his mind was a different story. Every time he got even a little bit worked up, he wanted a smoke. It’d been easier to stomp that urge down when Cas was around. He guessed that was something else he could blame Dean Wesson for.</p><p>The drinking, though—that was all Dean Winchester. Or, no, maybe that was Wesson, too.</p><p>Hell, maybe that was <em>John</em> Winchester/Wesson.</p><p>The point was, Dean hadn’t slipped any whiskey into his coffee that morning, so Sam should have thanked him. He’d been trying to drink less since his last conversation with Cas. It didn’t always work out. In fact, he was still pretty hungover from last night. He needed to clean up the empty beer bottles scattered around his room.</p><p>Sam sat down across from him, shooting him an unamused expression. It softened when he seemed to get a better look at Dean. Under the table, he kicked gently at Dean’s shin. “You still haven’t talked to Cas?”</p><p>Dean shrugged, looking down. “Not since the other night.” He sighed, feeling the urge to take another puff of the cigarette when his anger started to boil. “What can I say? He did exactly what I always thought he’d do. He found out who other me really was and freaked.”</p><p>That earned him pitying eyes from his brother. “Come on, you know that’s not true.”</p><p>He didn’t, actually. He had no idea what was true anymore.</p><p>He stubbed out his cigarette and rubbed at his tired eyes. “That’s the point, Sam. I really don’t.” He scoffed, kicking his feet up on the chair next to him and dropping his hands down to his lap. “Cas just up and left to make his own way in the world—not even up to date on all his vaccines, by the way—and I’m here trying to figure everything out by myself. And I thought what Dorothy did would help me draw the line between me and past me, but ever since then, it’s been worse.” He studied his hands. “Plus, I’m still <em>Eternal Sunshine</em> about other shit. Important shit.”</p><p>It was driving him crazy.</p><p>Sam nodded knowingly. “Like how you died?”</p><p>A lump formed in Dean's throat. “Yeah. And everything leading up to Cas’ death.” Like if Cas was right. If Dean had left him. And, if he had, why. “I just keep thinking, if I knew what went down, I could make things better.”</p><p>And there was something else he needed to know, too: “Who knows? Maybe it’ll tell us why I’m alive again, and why Cas was a ghost.”</p><p>“Yeah,” Sam agreed thoughtfully. “Well, have you talked to Dorothy again? Maybe she can come back and help?”</p><p>Dean scoffed. “No way. She was pretty freaked out. I already talked to Charlie. But—” He took out his phone, pulling up the text thread from Charlie. “They both still wanna help. Charlie texted me this last night.” He clicked on the web link and handed the phone to Sam. “Dorothy asked around the <em>mystic</em> community or whatever and found out about this psychic in town.”</p><p>Sam raised a brow at the webpage, clearly trying not to laugh. “Queen Persephone?” he read aloud, tone incredulous.</p><p>He was right. It sounded like a gimmick. “Yeah, but apparently she’s supposed to be the real deal.” He wasn’t too crazy about telling a complete stranger about his life—it was the reason he never sought out therapy. And he <em>really</em> wasn’t crazy about trusting a mystic. An age-old prejudice twisted in his gut, telling him to beware.</p><p>Sam clicked around the webpage, suddenly blanching. “Yeah, her <em>prices</em> are the real deal, too!”</p><p>“That’s the other thing,” Dean admitted. “But, if she can help…” Dean really wasn’t sure how to finish that sentence. This was all a lot easier when he thought magic was a crock of shit.</p><p>“Yeah,” Sam said, mulling it over. He looked up from the phone. “Maybe she’ll be able to help me remember stuff, too.”</p><p>Dean’s stomach lurched. “Whoa, what? No way, Sam. Come on.” Sam made a face in protest, but Dean wouldn’t let it get to him. If he could shield Sam from the horrors of their past life, he would. “You’re better off not knowing. Trust me.”</p><p>“Dean, maybe I know something you don’t. Like what happened after you died,” Sam reasoned, tone already combative.</p><p>“No way!” Dean said again, louder that time.</p><p>Sam scoffed. “You know what, Cas is right. You <em>are</em> being controlling.”</p><p>“I am trying to <em>protect</em> you. Both of you!”</p><p>“Well, it’s not your decision,” Sam argued. “You have to let people make their own choices.”</p><p>Again, he was right, but Dean didn’t want him to be. He fell back against his chair, folding his arms tightly. “Whatever,” he muttered.</p><p>Apparently, Sam thought that meant he’d won. And maybe it did. He looked back at the phone, clicking around again. “Looks like she has an opening tomorrow morning. Should we make an appointment?”</p><p><em>No</em>, Dean instantly thought, because thinking about trusting a mystic and actually doing it were two totally different things. But he knew he had no choice. He tried to remember that, even back when the Men of Letters were around, not all witches were evil. Most of them were happy to fall in line and be left alone.</p><p>Hopefully, this Queen Persephone was one of them.</p><p>Biting back his doubt, he gestured with his hand, telling Sam to go ahead.</p><p>Sam made the appointment and handed Dean back his phone. “Okay. So?”</p><p>Dean raised a brow. “So?”</p><p>Sam deflated, like he was pissed Dean couldn’t read his mind. “Are you gonna tell Cas? He might wanna come.”</p><p>Oh, no. Hell no.</p><p>“Cas doesn’t need to come,” Dean told him at once.</p><p>Sam shot him another look. “Dean. What did I <em>just</em> say?”</p><p>Dean rolled his eyes.</p><p>“Look, if you don’t tell him, I will,” Sam said. “But I kinda think it’d be better coming from you.”</p><p>He really wasn’t going to drop this. Sam would annoying-little-brother him into talking to Cas eventually. It was inevitable. Dean might as well get it over with. After all, maybe Cas would say no.</p><p>That didn’t really sound like something Cas would do, though. Especially since Cas seemed more open to finding out more about their past. Dean kind of wished he would have dug his heels in more.</p><p>“Fine,” he groaned, standing up. He looked at his watch, wondering if he could come up with an excuse to put off talking to Cas until after work. But his shift wasn’t for a few more hours.</p><p>Hopefully, Cas was at his own job that very second.</p><p>“Good,” Sam said, seeming satisfied. Or maybe not. He reached across the table and swiped up the packet of cigarettes. “And, really. Enough with these.”</p><p>Dean groaned. He headed for the backdoor, plucking his coat from the rack. Meanwhile, Sam crushed the cigarette box and tossed it into the trash. It was probably better that way.</p><p>Dean went out the backdoor, the crisp, cold air hitting him. There was a fresh blanket of snow on the ground, mounds of it sitting on the Impala. He grimaced toward the car, feeling remorseful. He had no idea it’d even snowed last night. Shaking that from his mind, he took in a deep breath, trying to collect himself. His nerves started buzzing at the idea of talking to Cas again. He hated it.</p><p>He didn’t have much time to stand around, however, because the door opened up behind him, and Sam stepped out.</p><p>Dean shot him an offended look. “What, you don’t trust me to tell him?” He didn’t need a babysitter.</p><p>Sam, hands in his pockets, shrugged out the ends of his coat. “Just making sure.”</p><p>“Dude, you’re such a stalker!”</p><p>Sam’s features rearranged wearily. “Let’s go, Dean.”</p><p>Dean grumbled. He started off for Kelly’s door, Sam in tow. Upon approach, he heard voices from inside. One of them was Jack’s high-pitched giggle.</p><p>Dean lifted his fist, letting it hover near the door. He glanced over his shoulder at Sam, realizing he was actually kind of happy for the moral support. Sam popped his brows and blew out his cheeks. Dean steeled himself, turned to the door, and knocked.</p><p>The voices inside paused momentarily. A few seconds later, the lock clicked. Kelly peeked her head out. Something like surprise flashed in her eyes. She gave a polite but guarded smile. Dean did his best to smile back charmingly. He glanced over her shoulder into the living room, where Cas was kneeling in front of Jack, helping the kid into his heavy coat and hat. Cas’ hands were stilled on the coat’s zipper, his eyes meeting Dean’s. Jack blinked at Dean, too.</p><p>“Oh. Sam, Dean,” Kelly said, wedging herself between the door and the frame. She pulled the door fractionally closed behind her, like she was trying to shield Cas from them. Crossing her arms—hopefully against the cold and not in some defensive momma bear tactic—she continued, “What’s up?”</p><p>“Hey, Kelly,” Dean said, hoping he didn’t sound impatient. Behind him, Sam greeted her, too. “Is, uh… Is Cas here?” Like they both didn’t already know he’d seen Cas inside. “We need to talk to him for a sec.”</p><p>Despite Sam’s puppy dog eyes and Dean’s pushed innocent expression, Kelly looked between them warily. “Um,” she said cautiously. “I don’t… I don’t know if that’s a good—”</p><p>“Kelly,” Cas’ gentle voice came from inside. He appeared over her shoulder, his eyes fixed on Dean. Dean looked back, trying to silently tell him that he wasn’t there to argue. “It’s alright.”</p><p>“You sure?” Kelly asked, swiveling her neck to look up at him. Dean didn’t know whether to be grateful that she was so protective of Cas or annoyed that she thought Dean was some kind of domestic abuser.</p><p>Cas brought his eyes down to hers. “Yes,” he said.</p><p>Kelly shot Dean one last glance, and he tried his best to <em>not</em> look like a domestic abuser, before seeming to accept it. She opened the door wider, stepping back.</p><p>From inside, Jack’s excited voice chanted, “Dean! Dean!” He rushed forward, squeezing between Cas and Kelly’s legs out the door. He yanked on the end of Dean’s jacket. “Me and Cas are gonna play in the snow! Come with us!”</p><p>Dean smiled down at him. “Oh, yeah?” He nodded backward at the patch of snow next to the gravel lot. “Why don’t you show me your best snow angel, huh?”</p><p>“Okay!” Jack bounced toward the snow.</p><p>Sam chuckled, turning to follow him. “I got him.”</p><p>“Thanks,” Kelly muttered. Behind her, Cas was slipping into his coat. He offered her skeptical glance with his own reassuring expression before stepping outside. Kelly closed the door gently behind him.</p><p>For a second, Dean and Cas just lingered awkwardly in each other’s space. Dean didn’t know how to start this conversation. He wondered if he should ask Cas how he’d been since they last saw each other, but it would sound disingenuous. Or, no—it would sound <em>common</em>. Like how strangers or acquaintances spoke to one other, not really asking for a real answer.</p><p>The back of Dean’s neck started to tense up. He rubbed at it, casting a look to where Sam and Jack were spread out on their backs in the snow, both of them laughing like kids.</p><p>“You wanted to tell me something?” Cas prompted after a long moment, causing Dean’s attention to snap back to him.</p><p>Dean opened his mouth, deciding to launch right into it. “Yeah.” The word got stuck in his throat, and he had to clear it. When the hell had he forgotten how to talk to Cas?</p><p>Stomping down his nerves, he powered through: “So, I was talking to Charlie. Her and Dorothy found this… I dunno. Psychic or whatever in town. Apparently, she’s supposed to be pretty good. I dunno if she can give us any answers but me and Sammy figured—” He shrugged and looked down at his boots. Idly, he kicked at the gravel. “Might be worth going to. She ain’t cheap but, if she can help…”</p><p>“Help?” Cas asked.</p><p>Dean knew he wouldn’t like the answer. Hell, Dean didn’t like it either. He was half-hoping Cas would try to stop him.</p><p>Forcing himself to look Cas in the eye, he said, “Help me remember what happened after you died.”</p><p>He let it hang in the air, gave Cas all the time he needed to absorb what he’d just said.</p><p>Cas bit down on his lower lip and glanced off toward Sam and Jack. He breathed out through his nose, shoved his hands into his pockets. Dean’s gaze dragged up and down Cas’ face. He looked exhausted, eyes drooping and the skin under them bruised. Face bleached. Even his hair looked limp and without luster. Guilt washed over Dean, knowing Cas was probably sleeping badly, too. On a couch. Fearful of being swallowed up by the dreamless emptiness.</p><p>Dean wished he’d just come home.</p><p>Cas nodded once. “I understand.”</p><p>Dean couldn’t decide if he was relieved or petrified. “And I still don’t remember—you know,” he said, swallowing hard, “everything that went down before that, either.” He was sure Cas understood that for what it was. “I just think—I dunno, might be good to have my side of the story, right? Maybe then we can get to the bottom of all this.”</p><p>Cas turned his head back to Dean, eyes tilted downward. “And you think this will bring you peace of mind?”</p><p>Dean scoffed out a laugh. “Fuck, I didn’t say that. Probably not.” He tried to say it as flippantly as he could. Cas didn’t so much as chuckle. “But I figure I owe it to both of us to find out.”</p><p>“Okay,” Cas said. “Then, I’ll go with you.”</p><p>Dean was <em>definitely</em> relieved now. He thought he could collapse under the emotion. “Thanks,” he muttered. “The appointment’s tomorrow morning.”</p><p>Cas only nodded.</p><p>Dean felt a little bit better about this whole situation. He thought maybe he could do this—maybe he could be brave—with Cas at his side.</p><p>But that was all Dean had to say for the time being. He nodded gracelessly, not really knowing how to end the conversation. Cas probably didn’t want him hanging around. “Okay. So, uh…”</p><p>He could feel Cas’ eyes on him.</p><p>“Dean, would you,” Cas said, and Dean’s eyes snapped up to him hopefully, “like to join Jack and me?”</p><p>Dean bit back a giddy smile. His chest inflated. He cast his gaze back to Sam and Jack. Jack was pelting Sam with snowballs; Sam was clutching his chest dramatically, pretending to die. And Dean had a couple hours before his shift at the garage started. He figured he had time to kill.</p><p>“Yeah, wouldn’t wanna break up the kids,” he joked.</p><p>There was a smile in Cas’ tone when he agreed, “No, we wouldn’t.”</p><p>The two of them walked toward Sam and Jack, Dean’s boots sinking into the icy snow as they went.</p><p>“Cas! Dean!” Jack squealed, snowball in hand, poised to launch it at Sam. He redirected it to hit Cas in the stomach. “You’re dead!”</p><p>Dean laughed, mood buoyed by the sparkle in Cas’ eyes.</p><p>“Yeah, you got him good,” he said, putting his hands on his knees and leaning over to be level with Jack. Meanwhile, Cas brushed the excess snow off the front of his coat. “What d’you say, Elsa? Wanna build a snowman?”</p><p>Jack giggled, nodding. Over Dean’s shoulder, Cas gave a breath of laughter, too. Surprised, Dean caught his eye.</p><p>“I understood that reference,” Cas said proudly. Dean figured Jack must have made Cas watch the movie at some point.</p><p>Dean crouched down in the snow, and the four of them got to work. He taught Jack how to roll the snow to make the body parts for the snowman. When Jack found a long stick for the arms, Dean cracked it in two over his knee. Sam put his scarf around the snowman’s neck, and Cas went inside to fetch a box of raisins for the face. Jack named the snowman Marvin after his teddy bear.</p><p>When Jack’s cheeks and nose became more neon than pink, they went inside to thaw off. Kelly took a break from studying to make hot chocolate. Jack broke out the crayons and construction paper. He, Dean, and Cas sat around the coffee table drawing while Kelly and Sam stayed in the kitchen, debating about some new federal law or policy or some shit that Dean hadn’t even heard about.</p><p>It had actually been a pretty fun morning. Jack was a cool kid, and Dean couldn’t remember the last time he and Sammy had played in the snow. Plus, it was nice being able to hang out with Cas. Cas seemed to perk up a little throughout the morning, too. He seemed less weary, and some color returned to his face, even if that color was a flushed red from the windchill.</p><p>When he got bored of coloring, Dean sat back against the couch cushion, trying not to yawn or admit the cold had wiped all his energy. He also pointedly ignored the ache in his chest when he noticed the neatly folded blanket and pillow on the opposite side of the couch. It was a little easier to bear when Cas sidled up next to him, fitting against Dean’s side. At first, Dean didn’t know if he was doing it on purpose or if the cushions dipped to push them together; but then Dean hooked his arm over the back of the couch, and Cas snuggled in closer to him.</p><p>Dean’s heart started racing so quickly, it felt like it was about to dislodge from his ribs.</p><p>The two of them kept their eyes on Jack as the kid continued to draw and babble about how he’d read the most books out of every one of his classmates and his teacher had given him a gold star sticker for it. Dean balanced his mug of hot cocoa on his thigh, keeping it steady by the handle. Cas had his mug cradled on his lap, tapping his fingers against the ceramic. He still had his ring on, which Dean took as a good sign.</p><p>“I think I wanna read three more books before Christmas so no one reads more than me,” Jack said innocently, still intently focusing on the picture he was scratching into the paper.</p><p>Cas’ shoulders rumbled with a silent laugh, and Dean gave a breath of laughter, too. He canted his head slightly, and Cas turned his face toward Dean to share a humored look. Dean hadn’t really realized how close their faces were until that exact second. The tips of their noses were barely an inch away from brushing.</p><p>Dean’s smile faded incrementally, and he saw the laughter in Cas’ eyes soften. His lips burned with the want to cross the space between them and seal their mouths. His skin buzzed from head to toe. Without meaning to, his eyes flickered down to Cas’ mouth. The tip of Cas’ tongue darted out to wet his lips, and it was enough for Dean to know that he was thinking about kissing him, too. Dean’s mouth parted. His pulse was jumping in anticipation. Cas’ fingers stopped tapping against his mug.</p><p>“Look, I drew Marvin the Snowman,” Jack exclaimed. Dean was only vaguely aware of it—until Jack whined, “Hey! You’re not looking!”</p><p>Cas turned away first. He dragged in an audible breath and offered Jack a tight smile. “Very nice,” he said, voice slightly shaky.</p><p>Dean blinked himself right and shifted closer to the arm of the couch to put some space between himself and Cas. “Yeah, good. Good job, kid.”</p><p>Jack proudly set the picture off to the side.</p><p>Dean picked his arm up from behind Cas and looked at his watch. He had about fifteen minutes before his shift started, and it would take ten minutes to get there. He still needed to change clothes. “I better get going.” He placed the mug on the coffee table. “Work.”</p><p>“Oh,” Cas said, disappointment in his tone. Dean tried not to read too much into it. “Okay, Dean.”</p><p>“You’re <em>going</em>?” Jack griped.</p><p>Dean put his hands on his knees and hoisted himself up with a grunt. He twisted to stretch out his back. “Sorry. Duty calls. Tell you what, maybe later, I’ll teach you how to make even deadlier snowballs.”</p><p>Jack giggled. “Okay!”</p><p>Dean looked around at Cas, who was perched on the edge of the cushion now. He glanced back up at Dean. Dean forced himself not to linger too long. He went to the backdoor, plucking his coat off the rack. “Yo, Sam,” he called into the kitchen. “I’m out.”</p><p>“Okay! See you later!” Sam called back.</p><p>Kelly’s voice followed, “Bye, Dean.”</p><p>“Bye. Thanks for the hot chocolate,” Dean called, pulling on his coat. Cas stood up, stepping over the toys strewn out on the floor around the coffee table to meet Dean at the door. They walked back out into the brisk chill. Some clouds had collected overhead, blocking out the sun. Cas wasn’t wearing his coat. If it wasn’t for the way he stuffed his hands into his jeans pockets, Dean wouldn’t have known the cold was affecting him at all.</p><p>“So, uh,” Dean said, again not really knowing how to part with Cas. “Guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”</p><p>Cas nodded, posture slumped. “Yes,” he said.</p><p>Dean really wanted to kiss him. It was frustrating, not being able to kiss his own husband. He thought they’d gotten past this bullshit stuffy Victorian Jane Austen crap back when they lived in actual stuffy Victorian Jane Austen times.</p><p>“Okay,” Dean said, ducking his head. His unease turned to humor, making him joke, “Well, it was a pleasure to spend the morning with you, Mr. Novak. We must do it again sometime.”</p><p>The corner of Cas’ mouth pulled upward, and he breathed out a laugh. A thrill went through Dean. The air became a little easier to breathe, smelled a little sweeter.</p><p>“Go away, Dean,” Cas teased, but he lifted his hand out of his pocket and gripped the lapel of Dean’s jacket. When their lips locked, Dean felt like he was floating. Everything else fell away, doubt and anger. He felt more like himself than he had in days.</p><p>It was a brief, chaste kiss, and Dean wanted more.</p><p>Cas’ palm spread out over Dean’s heart. “See you tomorrow,” he said softly.</p><p>Dean nodded, unable to stop the smile that pressed itself to his lips. “Bye.”</p><p>Cas let his hand fall away. He turned around, pushing through the door and into the warmth of the house.</p><p>Dean let himself bask in the moment before the uncertainty ebbed back in, twisting his intestines. He knew that, by that time tomorrow, he and Cas would either be a lot better off or a lot worse.</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p> </p><p>Dean couldn’t focus on anything all day. He’d been distracted at work, and it got even worse at night when his hands were idle. He tried to review his notes for school, but he ended up chewing the cap off his pen instead. After that, he made an attempt to watch a movie on his laptop, only to ignore it in favor of flipping through the photos of him and Cas on his phone. He’d even tried going to sleep early, which resulted in tossing, turning, and frustration.</p><p>Anticipation for their appointment with the psychic tomorrow sat heavily atop his chest like a weighted blanket. Except, it wasn’t at all comforting. It definitely didn’t help promote blood circulation or whatever the fuck those things were supposed to do, because Dean was pretty sure he was about to have a heart attack. He felt like he should be doing <em>something</em> to prepare, but there was nothing. All he could do was wait.</p><p>It was torture.</p><p>While pacing in small circles around his room, he kept casting glances at the wall that connected to Kelly’s apartment. Dean wondered where Cas was—if he was in that room or somewhere else. If he was just as freaked out as Dean was. If he, too, was nervous that whatever they found out tomorrow would be the final nail in their relationship’s coffin.</p><p>It seemed unreal. What they had survived death itself, and <em>this</em> would be how it ended? Dean tried to tell himself to stop being an idiot. Instead, he practically chewed a hole through his cheek.</p><p>He wished he could just see Cas. Maybe then he’d know everything would be okay. <em>They’d</em> be okay.</p><p>But Cas wasn’t around, and pictures weren’t filling the void. Dean’s eyes landed on Cas’ keyboard in the corner of the room. It was barely a substitute for Cas’ presence, but maybe it would help Dean feel a little bit better. If anything, it’d hopefully distract him from his thoughts.</p><p>He sat down in front of it and turned it on. At the same second, he realized he’d forgotten everything Cas had taught him about how to play piano. Dean pressed down on a key a few times, bringing forth the same note.</p><p>It didn’t help.</p><p>He sighed heavily and hit a few buttons, playing with the settings, until he came to the playback button. His finger hovered over it as he wondered if Cas had recorded anything. Probably not.</p><p>Dean pressed down on it anyway, just to see.</p><p>At once, a familiar tune lifted out of the speakers. It was lilting and sweet—and a little sad. And Dean recognized it. It took a lot longer than it should have for him to place it.</p><p>Cas had written that song for him.</p><p>Dean remembered the day Cas had first played it for him. The way Cas’ coy nervousness had bloomed into elation when Dean said he liked it. The way Dean’s chest filled to the brim with the song, its note too big to properly sit inside of him. Cas’ fingers had moved across the keys effortlessly, like water flowing over stone.</p><p>Dean closed his eyes and listened. His imagination took him back to the manor. Back to Cas.</p><p>He just wanted to find his way back to Cas. And he wanted Cas to stay with him—to not be buried by the past, but to fit into Dean’s life now. To feel like he belonged there. With Dean. With his family.</p><p>The song ended. Dean sucked in an unsteady breath.</p><p>When his eyes opened, they landed on his phone sitting on his desk. He didn’t know what emotion was swelling in his gut. He didn’t think it was courage or fear; he didn’t even think it was devotion to Cas that caused him to pick up his phone and video call his mom. It was more like an overwhelming feeling of <em>fuck it</em>.</p><p>As the phone rang, something else roiled inside of Dean, making him half-hope Mary wouldn’t pick up. He tried to beat that back.</p><p>The ringing stopped, and his mom’s face came into view on screen. She was on the couch in the living room, curled up snuggly. The sound of the TV played in the background. “Hi, Dean,” she said cheerfully.</p><p>Dean didn’t know if he could do this now that he was looking at her. Maybe he should have regular-called her instead of video-called her. That would have been easier. It would have also been cowardly. “Hey,” he managed to say.</p><p>“What’s up?”</p><p>He took in another deep, steadying breath, and he almost chickened out again. But then his eyes moved back to the piano.</p><p>“Dean?” Mary asked, tone more concerned.</p><p>Dean’s gaze snapped back to her. “Mom, I gotta tell you something. It’s about me and Cas…”</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p> </p><p>The next morning was bleak, the sky the color of iron and the air heavy and hazy. An icepick headache needled at the back of Dean’s head, just behind his ear. Every so often, it’d stab him deeper than it had before. His neck was so tense, it felt like a stone was beneath his skin. And those were just the physical ailments.</p><p>Inwardly, he couldn’t decide if his mind was buzzing too quickly for him to latch onto a thought, or if his thoughts were completely blank. Probably the latter. It was too early for this bullshit.</p><p>He flexed his fingers against the wheel of the Impala, its engine idling as it warmed up, and checked his watch. <em>10:11 AM</em>. Okay, so it wasn’t too early for this bullshit.</p><p>It felt like five in the morning.</p><p>That could have been due to the combination of the weather and Dean’s lack of sleep. His conversation with his mother kept him up half the night, on the verge of vomiting whenever he remembered the look on her face. When he finally did manage to fall asleep, he’d dreamed of the battlefield again. Cas had a rifle pointed at him, and the shot he fired from it caused a deafening crack. When Dean looked down, he had a bullet wound in his stomach and blood on his shaky palm.</p><p><em>10:12</em>.</p><p>They were going to be late. Maybe it was better to just call the whole thing off.</p><p>“C’mon, c’mon,” he muttered to himself, hoping to will Cas and Sam along so they could get this over with. He was surprised when it actually halfway worked. Kelly’s backdoor opened, and Cas came out, a thermos of coffee in hand.</p><p>Dean faced forward immediately. The muscles in his neck tensed even tighter.</p><p>The Impala’s backdoor creaked on its hinges, and Cas slid into the backseat. He sat in the middle, and Dean wanted to tell him no one actually <em>chose</em> to sit in the middle of a car’s backseat.</p><p>“Good morning,” Cas told him, his voice as soft and sleepy as the fog lifting off the gravel.</p><p>“Hey,” Dean muttered. He cast a glance at the door to his apartment. “Sammy’ll be right out.”</p><p>In the rearview mirror, Cas nodded. They stayed quiet for a second. Cas sipped his coffee; Dean wished he had a coffee of his own.</p><p>His conversation with Mary played on a loop in his head. He felt every word he’d spoken during it fill his mouth, creating a pressure that would avalanche out if he tried to speak.</p><p>“So, listen,” he said, anxiety knotting up his intestines. He didn’t even know why. Cas had <em>wanted</em> him to tell Mary what was going on. But what if Cas didn’t care anymore? What if he’d already given up on Dean, and none of this would matter?</p><p>Cas blinked at him in the rearview. Dean stared back. Somehow, it was easier to talk to his reflection than to swivel around and look at him face-to-face.</p><p>“I called my Mom last night,” he said, expecting some kind of reaction. Cas just stared, waiting for more. Dean exhaled, trying to not let it annoy him. “I told her… everything.”</p><p>Cas’ expression shifted. At first, he looked surprised, and then pleased, and finally, his features settled into concern. “How did she respond?”</p><p>Dean snorted. “How do you think? She thinks I’m nuts. Wanted to take the first flight out here.” He swallowed, Mary’s horrified eyes flashing into the forefront of his mind.</p><p>The backdoor of the townhouse opened. Sam came out, pulling on his coat in the process. And, really, his timing was impeccable.</p><p>Dean knew they had about twenty seconds before this conversation had to end. He watched Sam fish out his keys to lock the door.</p><p>Collecting himself, Dean added, “But I convinced her not to. Well, actually, she called Sam and <em>he</em> convinced her not to. At least until we go home for winter break. So, Christmas might be kinda awkward.”</p><p>Cas took a beat, seeming to mull that over. “Well.” He squinted at Dean in the mirror and offered, “I can stay here in Amherst, if that would make you more comfortable.”</p><p>It wouldn’t. It <em>really</em> wouldn’t. Dean didn’t know how to ask for it, but he needed Cas there.</p><p>His mouth hung open, hoping the words would spill out. He turned around to look at Cas fully. All he could do is stare.</p><p>Did Cas want to stay behind? They’d be apart for over a month if he did. Dean didn’t want that. He missed Cas, and the guy was still living in the same building as him.</p><p>He missed watching movies with him, sitting up in bed talking until they fell asleep, showing Cas funny Youtube videos, listening to Cas tell him about the book he was reading—even if Dean had already read it. He missed sitting in their garden together, ignoring their responsibilities. He missed messing around on the piano in the music room together. He missed dancing.</p><p>He missed Cas’ tired and unguarded gaze at night, the sound of his voice just after he woke up, his smile, warming up his cold hands.</p><p>Did Cas miss those things? Did Cas miss <em>him</em>?</p><p>He drew in breath, hoping to God that something would come out. Hoping to God he’d actually say the right thing for once.</p><p>The passenger side door opened and Sam folded into the seat. “Okay,” he said, oblivious.</p><p>Dean withered. Cas looked down at his coffee.</p><p>Sam turned slightly, gaze ping-ponging between the two of them like he finally realized he’d interrupted something. “We… ready to go?” he asked, doe-eyed and apologetic.</p><p>Dean sat forward and shifted the car into reverse. “Yeah, we’re good.” He didn’t dare turn around again as he backed up. There was nothing in the driveway, anyway.</p><p>It was a silent fifteen-minute ride to the so-called Queen Persephone’s place of business, which turned out to be a one-floor shotgun house in a residential area on the outskirts of town. Surrounded by a squat, iron fence, the lawn was bright with untouched, fluffy snow and an immaculately shoveled walkway. People in winter coats and hats walked along the sidewalks. All the houses looked relatively the same in varying colors and fence design.</p><p>A wooden sign stood proudly in the psychic’s front lawn.</p><p>
  <em>Queen Persephone</em><br/>
<em>Tarot – Palm Readings – Divination<br/>
</em>
  <em>Remedies – Potions – Elixirs</em>
</p><p>Dean parked the Impala on the street outside the house and inspected his surroundings warily. He didn’t like this. Now that he was there, he <em>really</em> didn’t like it. There was a coiling in his body telling him to be ready for a fight. He didn’t have a gun. He didn’t even have any herbs or talismans to counter spells and curses. All he had was the pocket knife his dad had given him for his fifteenth birthday buried deep inside his breast pocket.</p><p>He was about to suggest turning back to get some form of protection when Sam pushed open the passenger side door and hopped out. Cas did the same thing.</p><p>Dean gritted his teeth, deciding to follow. He’d just have to be on his guard.</p><p>He killed the engine and got out, coming to a rest next to Cas on the sidewalk. They both stared at the house until Sam walked around the Impala and joined them.</p><p>“You ready?” Dean asked, feeling way too unprepared himself.</p><p>Cas nodded solemnly. He pulled his shoulders tight and marched toward the front gate. Dean followed close after him. Cas reached for the gate, fingers connecting with one of the spires, and suddenly hissed in pain. He jerked his hand back. Dean jumped, too, readying himself for an attack.</p><p>“You okay?” Sam asked.</p><p>Cas shook out his hand. “Yeah, I think—It shocked me.”</p><p>Dean gave another look around the street, eyes scrutinizing the house. His gut instinct told him there was some kind of magic in the fence to keep out unwanted visitors—but iron usually did that on its own. He reached forward tentatively, wrapping his palm around it. Nothing happened. He shoved the gate open.</p><p>“Okay, go,” he said. Cas and Sam walked through. Dean followed, letting the gate rattle closed behind him. They walked up to the front porch, and it all seemed pretty innocuous. There was a wreath hanging over the front door and a letterbox over the doorbell. If not for the sign out front, Dean would have thought it was just a regular house.</p><p>But he’d seen enough seemingly innocent things turn out to be dangerous.</p><p>He knocked hard on the door. It took a second, but soon enough there was a click of heels from within. Dean squared himself and did his best to look intimidating.</p><p>The door opened.</p><p>A woman greeted them with a plastered-on smile that very quickly turned into wide eyes and open-mouthed shock. Her dress was the same color red as her hair.</p><p>Dean blanched, unable to believe his eyes. “You.”</p><p>“<em>You</em>,” she shot back, her Scottish brogue dripping off her lips.</p><p>“Rowena?” Cas said, gaping.</p><p>Rowena gave a sound that was half a laugh and half a whimper as she wheeled around and went back into the house. Dean caught the door with his open palm and stormed in after her. He felt dizzy. Behind him, he heard Sam ask, “Rowena? As in the <em>witch</em> Rowena?”</p><p>They followed her to a side room decorated gaudily with everything a person would expect from a psychic’s house: ropes of beads hanging from the entranceway, a circular table with a velveteen cloth, tarot cards, old books on antique shelves, a rug hanging over the fireplace, and enough incense to make Dean gag if he wasn’t about to throw up already. He spotted a large, ancient book with leather binding and yellowing pages sitting prominently on one of the tables.</p><p><em>The Book of the Damned</em>, he recalled. She still had it.</p><p>Rowena went to the back of the room and opened the glass doors of her liquor cabinet. She pulled out a bottle of scotch and a tumbler, filling it with a large amount of alcohol. Dean was almost jealous watching her gulp it down, because he could really use a drink, too. Or a cigarette. Or both.</p><p>She lowered the glass and looked back at them, body going slack. Breathlessly, she droned, “Oh, God. You’re still there.”</p><p>Dean flapped out his arms. “Yeah, I could say the same thing to you!” he yelled, voice filling up the small space. And then something hit him, making his spine rattle. “Wait, were you reincarnated, too?”</p><p>Rowena’s manicured brows shot up into her bangs. “Reincarnated?” she laughed mirthlessly. “Is that what this is? No, I wasn’t <em>reincarnated</em>, you thick man!”</p><p>Dean opened his mouth wide, offended. He was about to yell again when, just over his shoulder, Sam said, “She’s immortal.”</p><p>Dean blinked back into reality. He looked around sharply at Sam, whose face was scrunched up in intense thought. “How do <em>you</em> know that?”</p><p>Sam’s expression rearranged, eyes shifty and not quite looking at Dean. “I dunno,” he admitted, seeming freaked out.</p><p>“Yes,” Rowena confirmed, regaining their attention. She put the glass down and sauntered a little closer, still keeping the card table between them. “Hello, Samuel. I’m glad they’ve brought the more sensible brother along.”</p><p>Dean was getting a little tired of the revelations. He pointed at Sam. “You <em>know</em> him?”</p><p>It went ignored. Rowena put her hands on the table and leaned into them, shaking her head. “Out of all the people who have darkened my doorway, I never expected to see <em>Dean Wesson</em> again!”</p><p>Again, he could tell her the same thing. Instead, he said, “It’s Winchester now, actually.”</p><p>She barked out a laugh, like that was somehow the final straw. She gritted out, “Reincarnation! Of all things! I <em>told</em> you there’d be consequences! I <em>told</em> you! But did you listen? No!”</p><p>Dean charged further into the room, his mind circling around one word. “<em>Consequences</em>? To what?”</p><p>Her expression shifted, becoming perplexed. She stood up straighter. “You don’t remember?”</p><p>Dean shook his head angrily. “Kinda why we’re here.”</p><p>“I see,” she breathed out thoughtfully. Then, “Well, to the ritual, of course.”</p><p>“Ritual?” Dean and Sam asked in unison.</p><p>She rolled her eyes. “Yes. To bring <em>him</em> back.” She gestured behind Dean—at Cas.</p><p>Dean whipped around immediately, finding Cas’ eyes waiting for him. His jaw was set tight, lips pressed together. But his eyes were big and anxious.</p><p>Blood. There was blood on Dean’s skin. Hot and sticky. It pooled around him. It was everywhere. He was screaming.</p><p>Dean couldn’t swallow past the lump in his throat.</p><p>Rowena kept talking. “I told you: necromancy is a delicate art. It’s even harder when the person is not—not <em>alive</em>!”</p><p>It shook Dean out of his thoughts. “Isn’t that the point of necromancy?”</p><p>Rowena huffed. “You <em>really</em> don’t remember?” Dean lifted his brows, holding his hands out akimbo, waiting for answers. She folded her arms over her chest. “So, reincarnation, then. All three of you?”</p><p>“Well,” Cas said, his voice low and rough. It almost felt like a shock to the system and Dean didn’t know why. Maybe because his nerves were fried. “Technically Sam and Dean were the ones reincarnated. I was a ghost.”</p><p>Again, Rowena’s eyes widened. “A <em>ghost</em>,” she echoed, then seemed to consider it. “Actually, that makes a fair amount of sense.”</p><p>“It does?” Dean demanded.</p><p>Rowena blew past it. “How are you here?” she asked Cas.</p><p>Dean answered for him. “I brought him back.”</p><p>“How? A spell?”</p><p>“No! I just… did. Kinda the other reason we’re here,” Dean admitted lamely. “I found him in that house and he just—I dunno, came back to life.”</p><p>Rowena turned her head slightly like she wasn’t buying it. She circled around the table and moved closer to them. To Cas. Dean went rigid, wanting to step in front of Cas to shield him. But Rowena only looked at Cas like she was studying him.</p><p>Slowly, she reached out her hands. “Castiel, may I see your hand?”</p><p>“Why?” Cas asked before Dean got the chance.</p><p>“<em>Please</em>,” Rowena said instead of an answer.</p><p>Cas glanced at Dean, almost asking for permission. Dean didn’t like it, but he guessed there was no real harm to it. He nodded. Cas lifted his hand, and Rowena took it, turning his palm over. There was a slit in Cas’ palm about an inch long.</p><p>“Good Lord,” Rowena said, shivering.</p><p>“Yeah, they’re like ice boxes,” Dean agreed.</p><p>Rowena pressed her lips together and dropped Cas’ hand. She said, “Tell me, Castiel, since your resurrection, do you have an appetite?”</p><p>Cas narrowed his eyes, and Dean was pretty confused himself. “For food?”</p><p>“Anything,” Rowena prompted. “Food. Sex. Anything.”</p><p>“I…” Cas’ eyes shifted. “Yes, I eat. And…”</p><p>He wasn’t gonna say it. Dean just wanted to move this along. “Yeah, we fuck. Where’s this going?”</p><p>Rowena didn’t seem bothered by the intrusion. “And do you sleep?”</p><p>Cas nodded. “Of course, I—”</p><p>“Do you dream?”</p><p>Cas went still. Dean felt his heart skip a beat.</p><p>Rowena must have known the answer. “Right.” She stepped back. “It’s really got its hooks in you this time, hasn’t it?” She turned, walking to the fireplace.</p><p>Dean wanted to follow after her. His heart was slamming against his chest. “What does?” Something was scratching at the back of his mind. Deep down, he already knew the answer. He’d just forgotten. He wanted to keep forgetting.</p><p>“Death,” Rowena threw over his shoulder. She grabbed the iron poker from the rack next to the fireplace and came back over.</p><p>Dean stepped in front of Cas, not trusting her with a pointy object around him.</p><p>Rowena gave a frustrated breath. She held the poker out in offering. “Castiel, be a dear and hold this for me.”</p><p>Something told Dean he shouldn’t let Cas do it. That they should leave. Now. Before it was too late.</p><p>But it was already too late. Cas tentatively took the poker from her. He cried out like he’d been burned, and the iron clattered to the floor.</p><p>Dean couldn’t breathe.</p><p>Cas held up his palm, blanching down at it. Sam came forward to inspect Cas’ hand. Dean couldn’t move.</p><p>“Just as I thought,” Rowena said. “You didn’t bring him back all the way. He still has one foot in the spirit world. More than a foot, I’d say. The poor darling’s up to his neck in it.”</p><p>No. No, that couldn’t be right. Cas was alive. He was standing <em>right</em> <em>there</em>. “What are you talking about?” Dean yelled, but he guessed that didn’t matter. His real question was: “How do we bring him back?”</p><p>Rowena gave him a somber look. Dean wanted a gun. He wanted to kill her.</p><p>“I’m not certain we can,” she told him.</p><p>Bullshit. Dean took a charged step toward her. “You’re supposed to be powerful! Do it!”</p><p>Rowena stepped backward, not seeming nearly threatened enough.</p><p>Sam grabbed Dean’s arm, pulling him back. “Dean, cool it!” he warned. Then, he calmly looked at Rowena. “Rowena, you said… Before, you said it was harder to bring a person back when they weren’t alive. What does that mean?”</p><p>Rowena looked between them, seeming to gather her thoughts. “His condition,” she said. “It hasn’t begun. It’s worsened.”</p><p>Dean shook his head impatiently.</p><p>“Castiel. He isn’t dead, per se, but he isn’t alive,” Rowena explained.</p><p>Dean’s chest hurt with how fast his heart was beating. He couldn’t find air. He looked around at Cas again. Cas looked back, and all Dean saw on his face was pain.</p><p>There was a door in the back of Dean’s mind. It had been blown open. The only thing that remained sat in the dark corner deep inside. Dean could feel it slowly crawling into the light.</p><p>Rowena finished, “He never was.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0022"><h2>22. Chapter 22</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>1868</strong>
</p><p>Crickets chirped, their sound filling the sweet spring air. The night was a warm one, but thankfully dry. Riding into town in a few hours wouldn’t have been fun in the rain. The weather was on their side. Dean took that as a good sign.</p><p>He waited until all the lanterns in the manor’s windows were extinguished before slipping into the stables to prepare one of the horses. He made sure it was fed with extra rations and watered, and that the saddle was nearby and ready. He almost felt bad stealing a horse from Garth, but it would be found in town eventually. He and Cas would ditch her along the town limits, far away from the train station.</p><p>It’d been a long two and half months of planning. There were a lot of letters back and forth between Amherst and Boston, most of them coded in the secret language Dean and Sam had made up when they were kids so there wouldn’t be a paper trail. Sam had packed up the apartment and moved out, storing what they could at Bobby’s, who’d send them their belongings once they settled somewhere in California.</p><p>The train tickets out west were already purchased. Bobby had loaned them some money, and Dean didn’t know how to repay him. The railroad would take them down to Louisiana first, then out to Texas. They’d be on their own after that. Dean figured they could stay in Texas for a while and scrounge up some money gambling to buy horses. From there, they’d ride to California.</p><p>It’d be a long trip, but there were just enough stops that Dean figured it would throw anyone looking for them off their scent. When all was said and done, they could be looking out at the Pacific Ocean just in time for Cas’ birthday in September.</p><p>In preparation to leave, Dean washed off the protection symbols chalked into the windowsills of his apartment. He packed up his duffle with just the essentials—a couple changes of clothes, his gun, ammo, a knife, and a matchbook—and hoisted it over his shoulder. He headed for the back of the manor, toward the windows of the music room where he and Cas had agreed to meet up. Inside, the fireplace flickered warm light against the darkness.</p><p>Before Dean reached the house, he cast a glance over his shoulder at the woods. He thought of the garden there, and how he’d toiled so hard to create it. It was the first gift he’d ever given Cas. It was a shame to think it’d become overgrown now. But it was a sacrifice they’d have to make. Dean would build Cas a new garden in California. It wouldn’t even have to be a secret.</p><p>It’d be all their own. Forever.</p><p>When Dean got closer, he saw Cas through the window, sitting at the piano. His fingers were on the keys, but he wasn’t playing. Dean didn’t hear any music. Cas was just staring down at them blankly, like he was saying goodbye. Dean promised himself that, when he’d saved enough money, he’d buy Cas a piano, too.</p><p>He tapped on the window. Cas shook his head, roused. He glanced over, eyes widening slightly before he rearranged his features into something more neutral. Dean didn’t really know what to make of it. Cas got up and came to the window, unlatching it. He slid it open.</p><p>“Hey,” Dean said, tossing his duffle inside. It thudded on the floor.</p><p>“Hi,” Cas said. He helped Dean hoist himself up through the window. When Dean’s boots were on the floor, Cas stepped away, walking around the piano. He dragged his fingertips reverently along the polished wood.</p><p>Dean ignored it. “You packed?”</p><p>Cas barely glanced over his shoulder. Against the light in the fireplace, Dean saw his silhouette nod its head.</p><p>“Good.” Dean hoped Cas had packed light, like Dean had told him to. They only had one horse. “I went into town earlier today, sent Sam a telegram. He knows to pick us up at the train station in the morning. We’ll spend the night at Bobby’s then head back to the railroad the next day to start our journey.”</p><p>Dean was almost grateful they’d have some time for a respite before they left. It would be nerve-wracking to sit still in the same place for a while, but it was the safest place for them. Plus, Cas could meet Sam and Bobby. Dean could say goodbye to Bobby, which would be hard, but he knew it wouldn’t be forever. He’d see Bobby again. Some day.</p><p>Either way, they’d have the day to gather their thoughts and make sure they weren’t forgetting anything.</p><p>“I figure we should leave here around four-thirty in the morning. That way, it’ll still be dark. No one’ll be up yet. That’ll give us plenty of time to get into town and catch the train at six.” He nodded, glancing around the room like it’d help him jog his memory of any more details.</p><p>Cas still had his back turned to Dean, his head bent downward.</p><p>Off his silence, Dean added, “Benny and Jo said they’d cover for us for a while if anyone comes looking. It won’t work for long, but it should give us a few hours’ head start at least.”</p><p>He figured something in there would prompt Cas to say something. Anything. He remained quiet. Dean wondered if he’d even heard a word he’d just said. “<em>Cas</em>?”</p><p>“I’m listening,” Cas told him.</p><p>Dean flapped his arms against his sides. “Okay, great. ‘Cause you’re being awfully quiet.”</p><p>Cas tilted his head upward toward the ceiling. “What would you like me to say?”</p><p>Dean pinched the bridge of his nose, stifling his frustration. They were both just anxious. Dean himself had a constant buzz beneath his skin that practically itched if he stood still for too long. But there was nothing left to do for now. They just needed to grab a few hours’ worth of sleep before their journey began in earnest.</p><p>“Nothing,” Dean said, shaking his head. He dropped his arm back to his side. “I just wanna make sure you’re good.”</p><p>Cas didn’t respond. He pulled his shoulders back in a deep breath. His hand on the piano tightened into a fist. “Dean,” he said, and Dean didn’t like whatever emotion was in his voice. He turned around. There was hesitation in his eyes—fear. “We’re <em>certain</em> this is the right thing to do?”</p><p>Dean couldn’t let him think like that. Not now. Not when they were so close.</p><p>Dean was scared, too. He was fucking terrified. He didn’t know why that twisted into irritation. “No—Cas, come on,” he said sternly, pacing closer to Cas. “Of <em>course</em>, it’s the right thing. Don’t say shit like that.”</p><p>“I’m just trying to think about this logically,” Cas maintained, but he was wrong. He probably thought he was being logical, but he was letting his doubts get the better of him. And, as far as Dean knew, Cas hadn’t had any doubts over the last few months. He’d been resolute, even when Dean’s confidence had secretly wavered. Dean had to remind him of that somehow, to let him know that nothing had changed. Theirs was a good plan.</p><p>Cas kept talking. “If we’re found—”</p><p>“We <em>won’t</em> be.”</p><p>“You can’t promise that. A dozen things could go wrong before we even make it out of Boston. Or Amherst, for that matter.” Cas pinched his lips together, looking anywhere but at Dean’s face. “Maybe it’s better to stay here and—”</p><p>Dean’s frustration spiked into anger. “And <em>what</em>, Cas? Marry Daphne? Have the two of us sneak around, hoping no one catches on?”</p><p>Cas sighed heavily through his nose.</p><p>Licking his lips and rubbing at the headache sprouting behind his eyes, Dean made an attempt to get a hold of himself. “You know that there’s nothing here worth staying for.”</p><p>“That’s easy for you to say,” Cas snipped suddenly. “You’re not uprooting your life, Dean—everything you’ve ever known. And you got to say goodbye to your friends. Your brother is coming with us. I didn’t properly get to say my goodbyes to Balthazar and Gabriel. I will <em>never</em> see Anna again—”</p><p>“Then, what do you wanna do, Cas?” Dean hadn’t meant to explode. But they were so close. They were <em>so</em> damn close. “You wanna stay? ‘Cause the train tickets are already bought. Your wedding’s in five months. It’s now or never! So, I’m gonna be on that train to Boston. You coming or not?”</p><p>The doubt in Cas’ eyes was bleeding into panic. And, honestly, Dean did his best not to wither at the fact that it took Cas this long to make up his mind.</p><p>They stared each other down, Dean waiting for an answer.</p><p>And then a sound came from the hallway. As one, they turned their heads swiftly toward the door. It was closed tight, but Dean was sure he’d heard a floorboard creak. He cast a wary, hard glance in Cas’ direction, silently telling him to stay put. As silently and swiftly as he could, he went into his duffle and pulled out his gun. He stalked toward the door.</p><p>He wasn’t planning on actually shooting anyone, but if someone had overheard them, the six-shooter would come in handy threatening them into silence.</p><p>Slowly, he opened the door, wincing when the hinges whined in protest. He poked his head out, looking both ways into the dark corridor. There weren’t any shadows lingering, and he didn’t see anyone moving around.</p><p>For good measure, he paced out into the hall and walked toward the foyer. The moonlight streamed in through the window over the front entrance, its silver light pooling on the carpet and stairwell. The portrait of Chuck Novak stared down at him. The rest of the area was empty. Across the foyer, the corridor leading into the west wing’s lower level was pitch black and vacant.</p><p>Dean relaxed his body, satisfied. It must have been the wood settling after the temperature change from winter to spring. He walked back to the music room. Cas was standing in the doorway.</p><p>“All clear,” Dean reported, keeping his voice low just in case. He didn’t need someone <em>actually</em> overhearing them.</p><p>Cas nodded curtly and moved back inside the room. Dean followed, closing the door behind him. He crossed to his duffle and tucked his gun back inside. Then, he glanced over his shoulder at Cas. Cas’ expression was still lined with fear, but he looked like he was leaning in Dean’s favor.</p><p>“Hey,” Dean said softly, knowing he could sway Cas’ decision. He moved toward him, framing Cas’ face in his hands. Cas sighed against him, body going slack. Dean dipped his head to fish for Cas’ eyes. “I’m scared, too, alright? But we’re gonna make it, sweetheart. I promise.”</p><p>Cas held his gaze. Briefly, Dean wondered if he should tell Cas that he would protect him. That it’s what he did: he protected people. He considered telling Cas about his past—all of it. The Men of Letters, the witches, the magic, the killing, everything. But he was afraid, if he did, Cas would decide to stay in Amherst, and he’d tell Dean to leave.</p><p>And maybe a part of Dean didn’t want to tell him. Sure, he wanted to shield Cas from all of that—but he wanted to be selfish, too. If Cas could run from his future, maybe Dean could run from his past. They’d both be able to start fresh in California. Together.</p><p>He even had a new name picked out for them, after his dad’s favorite rifle. Neither of them had to be the thing the world asked them to be ever again. Cas would be free, and Dean didn’t have to be a soldier. He could just be Cas’. He realized that’s all he really wanted to be anymore.</p><p>“Trust me?” Dean asked, stroking the ridge of Cas’ cheekbone with his thumb.</p><p>Putting his hands to Dean’s shoulders, Cas nodded. “Of course.”</p><p>Dean thought he could collapse with relief. “Okay.” He stepped out of Cas’ hold and went back to his duffle bag, picking it up. “Let’s get some sleep. Long day tomorrow.”</p><p>Cas nodded, and he seemed a little less tightly wound than before. Dean decided it was good enough. After all, Cas would feel better once the manor was behind them.</p><p>They crept up to Cas’ room, and Dean tried not to get too sentimental over the fact that this would be their last night in that comfortable bed. He’d probably never experience anything so luxurious again in his life.</p><p>He set his duffle on the floor and unlaced his boots, then slipped out of his jacket and suspenders. He didn’t bother taking anything else off. Meanwhile, Cas adjusted the mechanical arms on the wooden shelf clock to wake them up at 4:30. While Cas took off his shoes and jacket, Dean pulled shut the canopy’s curtains.</p><p>It was funny. He never really saw the point to those things, and now he thought he’d miss them.</p><p>The two of them climbed beneath the blankets by the light of the gas lantern through the canopy’s fabric. Dean settled against the pillow, willing himself to relax. His pulse with still racing, urging him against inaction. But then Cas pressed his body against Dean’s back and slung his arm over Dean’s torso.</p><p>Dean relaxed.</p><p>He strained his neck to look back at Cas. In the low light, Cas offered him a dim smile, all in his eyes.</p><p>“We’re gonna be okay,” Dean told him again, hoping to convince them both. Cas didn’t answer. He lifted himself up and leaned in for a kiss. Dean picked his head off the pillow to meet him. It was chaste and sweet, lingering. It filled Dean’s chest with bravado. Because, really, it was the only reason he needed to know they were doing the right thing.</p><p>When it ended, Cas hovered over him, studying his face.</p><p>Dean reached up and ran his thumb down the bridge of Castiel’s nose, causing the pensive lines there to smooth out into something more tender. “I love you, Mr. Novak,” he told him. He hoped it was enough.</p><p>Cas’ eyes twinkled. “And I love you, Mr. Wesson.”</p><p>It <em>was</em> enough.</p><p>While Cas rested back against the bed, Dean reached out of the curtain and turned off the gas lantern. The room faded into darkness. All he heard was Cas’ breathing.</p><p>Cas remained tucked in close to him, his arm around Dean. His hand moved up Dean’s chest, splaying his palm over Dean’s heart. Dean blanketed his hand on top of Cas’ and entwined their fingers. Against his spine, he could feel Cas’ heart beating.</p><p>It took a while, but he eventually heard the rhythm of Cas’ breathing change and pitter off to sleep.</p><p>Dean dropped off soon after.</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p> </p><p>Cas’ arm was still around him, their hands still conjoined—though, their grips had slackened in sleep. Dean was aware of this the same way one could be aware of a dream’s ending while teetering the line between sleep and awake. The mattress was soft beneath him. His and Cas’ shared body heat was pulling him back toward unconsciousness. Somehow, he knew it was still too early to wake up.</p><p>At what seemed to be a great distance, Dean heard the whining of metal hinges. It was followed by footsteps. It took his mind longer than it should have to realize the footsteps were approaching. That someone had opened the door.</p><p>At once, he was awake. His eyes opened to the absolute darkness. He felt beneath his pillow for his gun—and realized it was in his duffle at the foot of the bed. Cas was still asleep. Adrenaline clogged Dean’s throat.</p><p>A small orange glow from outside the curtains encroached into his vision.</p><p>It felt like time was moving too slowly. And too fast. Much too fast. Dean couldn’t keep up.</p><p>Barely half a second later, the curtain on Cas’ side of the bed was torn open. Dean gasped in a violent breath, whipping around. Chuck stared back at him, his finger hooked into the candle holder he was carrying. Its flame bobbed and danced to cast deep shadows onto his face.</p><p>Dean’s reaction must have woken Cas up. Cas inhaled sharply, his body going stiff against Dean. He lifted his head off the pillow, and he might have murmured Dean’s name in question. Dean's attention flickered to the door, where Zachariah was filling out the threshold, his own candle held up.</p><p>Chuck’s whole body deflated and he let out a petulant, disappointed sound. “Ugh. Come <em>on</em>, Castiel,” he groaned.</p><p>Cas looked around quickly, eyes wide and alert. Despite the flame lighting up his face, he looked drained of color.</p><p>“I’m sorry I was right, sir,” Zachariah said, not sounding sorry at all. “I wish you didn’t have to see this, but I overheard them talking just hours ago. They’re planning on running away.”</p><p>Dean would kill him.</p><p>He sat up in bed, his hand tightening on the front of Cas’ shirt. It was all he could do. He didn’t know how to get out of this. Could they run? Could they fight? Could he <em>really</em> kill them? There had to be <em>something</em> he could do.</p><p>“Yeah, yeah,” Chuck said, waving the butler’s words away. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Zachariah, can you take Dean somewhere else? I need to talk to my son.”</p><p>Cas’ fingers had a vice grip on Dean’s thigh, and Dean didn’t know if he was clinging to him or trying to comfort himself. He looked quickly up at Dean, silently asking him not to go. And it wasn’t even a question. Dean wasn’t leaving.</p><p>“Like hell,” Dean shouted. It went ignored.</p><p>“I’d be happy to,” Zachariah said. He stepped into the room, immediately bee-lining to the end of the bed. He picked up Dean’s duffle and boots. “Mr. Wesson, if you’ll follow me?”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“Get out!” Chuck yelled, the suddenness of it making Dean jump and Cas go rigid. Even Zach stood a little straighter.</p><p>Dean wouldn’t let himself be intimidated. He looked down at Cas, who met his gaze, eyes baleful. He looked like he didn’t want Dean to go, but he knew he had to. They both knew it. Their best line of defense was to divide and conquer. Maybe Cas could talk Chuck down. And Dean… Dean had no idea what he’d do to Zach, but he was pretty sure it’d end with bloody knuckles.</p><p>His throat clicked when he swallowed. Cas squeezed his thigh before letting go. He sat up, jaw set with courage when he looked at his father. Dean took a second to let his eyes track up and down Cas’ profile. He told himself it wouldn’t be the last time.</p><p>This made things more complicated, but the plan wasn’t changing. They were leaving. Together.</p><p>Dean would find a way.</p><p>He slipped out of bed and followed Zachariah out of the bedroom. Zach pulled the door closed and walked behind Dean. Dean could feel the butler’s watchful, victorious eyes cutting into him.</p><p>Behind him, he heard Chuck, voice muffled by the door, saying, “The gardener? <em>Really</em>? Castiel, we talked about this! You’re getting married. Instead of spending time with your soon-to-be-wife, giving <em>her</em> a chance, you’re…” The words faded the further Dean walked down the hallway, until he couldn’t hear them at all.</p><p>He held himself tensely, walking out of the hall, onto the mezzanine, down the stairs. The whole time, his mind was buzzing, grasping at straws to come up with a plan. He could take Zach—catch him by surprise, knock him out. He could do the same thing to Chuck. Then, he and Cas could run. They could hide in the woods across from the main gate. Hell, they could walk into town to catch a train. Maybe not Amherst, because that’d be too obvious, but a surrounding town with a railroad station.</p><p>And maybe they wouldn’t go to Boston first. They could go to Providence or New Haven or New York—or anywhere the first train was headed. They could write to Sam from wherever they ended up and tell him to meet them.</p><p>It could work.</p><p>When Dean reached the bottom of the stairs, he wasn’t sure where to go. He headed for the music room. It was a stupid thing to think, but something about that room made him feel like he could have the advantage.</p><p>The floorboards under his feet were ice cold. The fire in the hearth barely had any flames licking up around the wood. It was mostly dying embers.</p><p>The door clicked when Zachariah closed it. Dean put as much space between them as he could. He turned around, watching Zachariah carelessly dump his bag onto the floor. He held up the boots, turning his nose up at them in disgust. “These filthy things. Do you know <em>just</em> how much dirt they leave on the carpets? You practically left a trail to Castiel’s bedroom most nights.”</p><p>Dean fisted his hands, the realization pressing into him like a boulder. He’d been sloppy, stupid. He’d gotten too complacent.</p><p>“Oh well,” Zach said, dropping the boots and slapping the dirt off his hands.</p><p>Dean wouldn’t allow him time for any more snide remarks. “You listen to me—”</p><p>“I don’t think so, <em>boy</em>,” Zach cut him off. He held up his hand, miming a talking motion. “I am so sick of your mouth. But now, I’ve got you, so you’re going to shut up and listen. Understand?”</p><p>Dean ground his teeth, sneering at the butler.</p><p>“You see, Mr. Wesson, I’ve been watching you,” Zach said, walking closer. Dean didn’t know why he backpedaled. He told himself to stand his ground, that he wasn’t afraid of the butler; but there was something in the snarl on Zach’s face that plucked at Dean’s fight or flight instincts. He backed up until his back hit the piano.</p><p>“I wondered why you seemed so <em>interested</em> in Castiel. Why the two of you were always sneaking off the property and into the woods together.”</p><p>Dean’s fists tightened. He bared his teeth.</p><p>Zach held up a finger. “Oh, yes. I know all about your little midnight excursions and the garden in the forest. Just like I know about all those symbols in your apartment.”</p><p>Dean felt the color drain from his face.</p><p>“I know what you are,” Zach told him arrogantly. “And, what? Did you really think you could come collect payment now that your boss is dead? Don’t think I haven’t heard of her demise.”</p><p>Dean blinked, completely thrown now. For a second, he thought Zach had actually known what he was talking about. But it only sparked a new question: “What the hell are you talking about?”</p><p>“Abaddon.”</p><p>Time stopped.</p><p>It started up again very slowly. Dean’s blood curled inside his veins; his breath sluggish in his lungs. An ember in the hearth popped and hissed as it died, its glow hollowing out Zach’s eyes. Dean couldn’t feel a bit of its warmth.</p><p>“How do you know that name?” he heard himself say, voice low and quaking. He couldn’t decide if it was from rage or fear. His skin bumped. He could feel gunpowder and blood on his hands, Sammy heavy in his arms.</p><p>Zach scoffed, dismissing the question. “The real question is, how do <em>you</em> know about Castiel?”</p><p>The room was spinning. Dean couldn’t get it to stop. Zach’s smug, suspicious face was the only fixed point.</p><p>“Cas?” he eked out. No. This couldn’t be real. This was a nightmare. “What did she do to Cas?”</p><p>Zach blinked, seeming perplexed. He regarded Dean for a long moment, some realization dawning in his eyes. “Huh,” he breathed out. “You <em>don’t</em> know?” It was a question, but it didn’t sound like one.</p><p>Dean couldn’t breathe.</p><p>This wasn’t happening. He was dreaming.</p><p>“You <em>actually</em> care for him,” Zach kept on, like it was some shocking revelation. He flapped his hand, waving it away. “Well, then, this should make things rather easy, won’t it?” He chuckled lightly, spinning around and pacing out of Dean’s personal space. He plopped down on the couch, crossing his legs and stretching his arm over the backrest.</p><p>Dean didn’t dare take his eyes off him.</p><p>“You need to leave,” Zach told him, as if there was actually any chance of that happening without Cas.</p><p>Dean picked himself off the piano, trying to stand on his own. Every muscle in his body was strung out, tense and aching. “No,” he gritted out, finding his voice. He pointed a finger at Zach, who merely raised a brow in casual apathy. “Now, start talking! How do you know about Abaddon? What did she do to Cas?”</p><p>God, Dean had been so blind. Had Zach been a threat this entire time? What, was he a witch? Was Cas safe? Was Jo? Were any of them?</p><p>“Settle down, Mr. Wesson. I’ll explain, and then you’ll leave,” Zach said like it was a promise.</p><p>“I wouldn’t be so sure!”</p><p>Zach shimmied a little on the cushion, like he was trying to get more comfortable. “Yes, you will. If you want Castiel to live.”</p><p>It was like a gut punch. “Is that a threat?” Dean’s eyes flashed to his duffle, where his gun and knife were tucked away. He wondered if he could get to them in time, but it didn’t matter. He’d kill Zach with his bare hands if he had to. He wouldn’t let him get to Cas.</p><p>Zach raised a palm to steady Dean. He hummed thoughtfully, tilting his head to the side. “Call it more of a prediction. I know, I know. Sounds ridiculous. But my eyes were opened to the world of the occult years ago.”</p><p>Dean’s patience snapped. “What’d she do to him?”</p><p>“I’m getting to that,” Zach said, tone suddenly dark, expression becoming flinty. Dean clamped his jaw shut against the thing inside of him that shirked away from the butler’s intimidation tactic.</p><p>Features rearranging, Zach said, “Castiel. He’s dead.”</p><p>It hung in the air for a second. Dean realized he wasn’t breathing again. “Wh—”</p><p>“Well, not <em>dead-</em>dead. More like, he’s got one foot in the grave. He has his whole life.” Zach shrugged it off as if anything he was saying made sense. “You see, when Mr. Novak first married, he had a burgeoning empire—and a large fortune. All he wanted was to make sure it stayed in the family, and, for that, he needed an heir. A son. Someone who he could mold and shape and, one day, ensure the firm would continue in Chuck’s vision.” He twiddled his fingers. “Mr. Novak doesn’t like to leave things to chance. I’m sure you’re well aware.”</p><p>Dean had no idea what any of this had to do with Abaddon. He could feel his pulse in his throat. He glanced toward the door, wondering what his best route to Cas was. They needed to get out of there—quickly. “Yeah, pushing bibles for the rich folks.”</p><p>“Broadly speaking, yes,” Zach agreed. “Anyway, when Mrs. Novak was with child, Chuck was over the moon. And then—well. Anna. A girl. Hardly able to grow up to run a business.” Dean didn’t have the capacity to call Zach out on that one at the moment. “So, they tried again. And that’s when they got Castiel! And everything was fine for a while—until Castiel contracted scarlet fever as an infant.”</p><p>Dean’s gaze snapped back to Zach. He forgot all about escape, at least for the moment.</p><p>“Terminal, I’m afraid,” Zach continued, drumming his fingers on the back of the couch. “We tried every doctor from here to New York, and when they couldn’t help, Chuck had me seek out—let’s say—fringier types of healers. Until, eventually, I heard rumors of a witch.” He scoffed out a laugh. “I thought it was a bunch of malarkey myself, but Mr. Novak was desperate. He insisted. So, we sent for the woman.”</p><p>“Abaddon,” Dean inferred, the name getting caught in his teeth.</p><p>Zach nodded. “That’s right. She came right away—only, Castiel died before she arrived. A few days later, when she got here, she told us she could bring him back, but there’d be a cost.”</p><p>Dean knew how necromancy worked. He thought of his father—bloody, writhing on the floor, on the brink of death. A cocktail of agony and understanding washed over Dean. “Chuck traded someone else’s life for Cas’.”</p><p>“Mrs. Novak’s,” Zach confirmed grimly. “As Castiel grew, her life faded until she died. Everything she had went to him—her entire twenty-three years and ten months of life. But, you see, Castiel—he’d been dead for days, stinking up the place. Abaddon did all she could, but she couldn’t bring Castiel back the whole way. She said there was only one thing that’ll save him from dying before he reaches the age of twenty-four.” He straightened a little, reciting: “When he falls in love and is joined forever with the one who returns that love.”</p><p>Throughout the story, Dean’s energy had slowly been draining away. His fight was gone. His body slack. He mulled over Zach’s words, trying to find the lie in them. He knew it was the truth.</p><p>He thought of Cas’ cold hands.</p><p>He thought of the twinkle in his eyes when he smiled—so vibrant and alive.</p><p>Dean felt his heart crack open, the yoke pooling in his chest.</p><p>The only thing that gave him hope was this: Cas loved him; he loved Cas. Maybe Dean could save him, if only he knew how.</p><p>“Joined?” he asked, his voice sounding raw and hollow.</p><p>“Marriage,” Zach said pointedly, confirming Dean’s fear. He and Cas could never get married. But Cas couldn’t marry Daphne, either. It wouldn’t save him.</p><p>“And you think he loves <em>Daphne</em>—”</p><p>Zach interrupted him quickly. “It has to be her,” he said, like saying it firmly enough would make it true. “She’s the only one he’s ever shown even a little bit of companionship with. Besides, we’re running out of time. Castiel will be twenty-three in September. If we wait another year, he’ll be completely dead. Is that what you want?”</p><p>Dean didn’t want any of this. His eyes were stinging. He closed them tight, willing the sobs racking up his chest to stay inside.</p><p>He heard Zach continue coldly: “So, it’s her. Trust me, this has been in the making for a while. Her brother wasn’t too gung-ho about her marrying the boss’ son. Didn’t want any favoritism, you see. But he was happy enough to get a promotion and not have to pay a dowry. Castiel lives, Daphne gets a husband, Chuck gets his heir, and I keep my job. And, well, we kept wondering when Abaddon would come collect on that favor we owed her, but that doesn’t matter much now that she’s dead.”</p><p>Dean gritted his teeth, half regretting he killed the bitch just so she could bleed Chuck Novak for all he was worth.</p><p>Zach slapped his hands on his thighs and gave a breath of finality. “So, there you have it. Everybody wins.”</p><p>Dean couldn’t accept that. Even if he and Cas couldn’t get married, it didn’t matter. There had to be some kind of work around. Because Cas didn’t love Daphne. Cas loved <em>him</em>. And, as long as Dean was around, that’d never change. “No. There has to be another way.”</p><p>“There isn’t,” Zach assured quickly. “Even if there is, there’s no use trying to find it. We have a way. This is it. And, if you want him to live, you’ll accept that and stop getting in the way. You’ll leave. Right now.”</p><p>No. He wouldn’t leave Cas. He wouldn’t.</p><p>There was a pit in Dean’s stomach. Darkness was creeping into the corners of his vision like a vignette. He shook his head down at the floor. He wanted to rage, to punch his way to victory. He didn’t know how.</p><p>Zachariah gave a heavy breath, almost sounding genuine, and leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “Mr. Wesson,” he said levelly. “Dean. If you truly do care for him, you know what you have to do. If you’re around, he’ll never grow to love Daphne. And, if he doesn’t love Daphne…”</p><p>Dean told himself not to believe it. Zach was just trying to get him out of the picture. But, still, Dean knew he was right. Cas wouldn’t look twice at Daphne with Dean still in the picture.</p><p>Cas loved him. That wasn’t changing. As long as Dean was around.</p><p>But maybe it would if Dean wasn’t around.</p><p>Or, “What happens when I leave and he still doesn’t fall in love with her?”</p><p>Zach lifted a shoulder in a shrug. “Guess we won’t know what the outcome will be unless we give him the chance,” he said. “And it is his <em>best</em> and <em>only</em> chance. There’s no sense in trying to prevent it.” He dipped his head to the side, gaze assessing Dean. “Ask yourself: are you really willing to let Castiel die because you wouldn’t let him go?”</p><p>Dean averted his eyes. His mind whirled desperately, trying to come up with another solution. Briefly, he thought about letting Cas decide. It should have been his choice. But Dean already knew what Cas would say. He’d rather die.</p><p>And how the hell was Dean supposed to let him? Dean was supposed to protect him from this shit.</p><p>“Cas doesn’t know any of this.”</p><p>“Nope,” Zach told him, popping the P. “And he never will. Understood?” And <em>that</em> sounded like a threat.</p><p>Dean gave a shaky exhale. He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know how to save Cas.</p><p>In his periphery, he saw Zach stand up and walk over. He was reaching into his breast pocket. Dean tensed on reflex, his neck snapping up. Zach pulled out a few banknotes from his jacket. “For a railroad ticket,” he said, holding it out in offering. “Plus some extra to get you started. Get far away. I don’t care where. Maybe go back west where you belong, with the other dregs of society. Just make sure we never hear from you again.”</p><p>Something in Dean’s chest sparked. It was a weak ember in the damp darkness, but it was enough to show his disgust. “I don’t want your fucking money. I’m not leaving Cas to—”</p><p>Zach shoved the bills against Dean’s chest. “Yes, you are.” He breathed, controlling himself. “Dean. Yes, you are.”</p><p>Dean wanted to tell him no. But that wouldn’t help Cas. That wouldn’t save him.</p><p>Maybe Zach was right. Dean and Cas both knew that what they had could never last. Not really. Even if Dean had tried so damn hard to make it so. But he knew, more than ever, that this was Cas’ best shot. For Cas to get married, have a family, and through that, learn to love Daphne. That’d never happen with Dean around.</p><p>No, Cas needed to forget about his love for Dean if he had any chance of living.</p><p>Which meant Dean had to leave.</p><p>“Go,” Zach told him pointedly.</p><p>Slowly, Dean reached up and took the money out of Zach’s hand. His spine was rocking, bones shivering. He felt a fracture run through him, splitting him in two. In some way, he always knew it would end like this: leaving to keep Cas safe.</p><p>“Can I at least say goodbye to—”</p><p>“Mr. Wesson,” Zach cut him off, tone reproving. “I think you know why you can’t.”</p><p>The ember in Dean’s chest was snuffed out. His eyes slipped closed, and he imagined a set of blue staring back at him.</p><p>Cas needed to think Dean skipped out on him. He needed to hate Dean. Because, if he didn’t, he’d always love him.</p><p>He shoved the money into his pocket.</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>2020</strong>
</p><p>A shroud of silence hung over the room. Dean paced back and forth on Rowena’s oriental carpet, chewing one of his fingernails down the nub. Sam and Rowena were sitting across from each other at the card table, Sam doubled over with his elbows on his knees and his hand in his hair, Rowena’s eyes flickering between the two brothers. Cas was leaning against the wall, face turned, eyes cast out the window looking at the street.</p><p>He hadn’t said a damn word since Rowena caught them up on everything.</p><p>“Okay, so let me get this straight,” Sam said for probably the fifth time in fifteen minutes. “Abaddon—the witch we hunted and killed—was hired by Chuck Novak to bring Cas back to life?”</p><p>“Correct,” Rowena said patiently.</p><p>“But he wasn’t brought all the way back? He had to fall in love first?”</p><p>Dean ground his teeth. It sounded like the plot of a damn Disney movie.</p><p>Rowena blew out her cheeks and gave an aborted gesture with her hands. “I’m merely relaying what the two of you once told me,” she said. She shifted in her chair to look at Dean. “I’m surprised you don’t remember this. It’s rather important.”</p><p>He stopped dead in his tracks and wheeled around to face her. “Oh, yeah, because I’ve been able to pick and choose my memories! Newsflash, lady: it’s not the Dollar Menu!”</p><p>“Dean, come on,” Sam gently urged.</p><p>At the same time, Rowena dismissed Dean with a wave, seeming fed up. But he didn’t really care, because all the memories he’d apparently repressed where working their way back into the light. He pinched the bridge of his nose and skewed his eyes shut, trying to focus. To breathe.</p><p>The memory was still foggy, but Zachariah’s smug face faded into the front of his mind. There was money in his hand. Dean had taken it, and then he’d left.</p><p>Dean had left Cas after all.</p><p>“Yeah,” he eked out, dropping his hand. He couldn’t bring himself to turn around to face Cas. “I think… the butler, Zachariah... He told me.” He shook his head, because now that they had this information, they had to do something about it. Dean needed to understand what exactly they were up against so he could fix it.</p><p>He gestured out his arm behind him. “So, what? Is he a zombie or something?” It sounded stupid.</p><p>Rowena must have thought so, too, judging by the look she was giving him. “No,” she said. Then, after a second of consideration, “Well, I suppose, perhaps, it’s an apt analogy—”</p><p>“Great, an <em>analogy</em>!” Dean could practically feel his blood pressure rising. If he wasn’t careful, he’d give himself a nosebleed.</p><p>“Well, I don’t know!” Rowena defended. “I’ve never seen anything like this before!”</p><p>And that was just <em>awesome</em>. Dean was getting really tired of being a special case. He grunted, rattling his head. Cas wasn’t a zombie. That was stupid. “It’s not like he’s not jonesing for brains!” He swiveled around to look at Cas, just to make sure he hadn’t gone foaming at the mouth in the span of a few seconds. He demanded, “You’re not jonesing for brains, are you, Cas?”</p><p>Cas didn’t answer. At first, Dean thought Cas was ignoring him—not dignifying the question with a response or some shit. But Cas didn’t even appear to have heard him. He kept staring out the window, standing perfectly still. Dean didn’t even know if he was breathing.</p><p>It stole Dean’s breath, too. “Cas!” he barked. Sam sat up straighter in his seat. Dean shared a look with him before pacing tentatively closer to Cas. He wanted to reach for him, but he thought, if he did, Cas might fall over. “Cas?”</p><p>Cas blinked. He turned his head slowly to look at Dean, expression neutral. Dean scanned him up and down, body tense with worry. When he was absolutely sure his voice wouldn’t shake, he asked, “You good?”</p><p>“Under what circumstances?” Cas asked, narrowing his eyes. “It seems that I’m still dead.”</p><p>“Castiel?” Rowena said, catching Cas’ attention. Dean looked over his shoulder, seeing her stand up and cross toward them. When she reached Dean’s side, she asked, “Where did you go just then?”</p><p>Cas didn’t seem to understand the question. Neither did Dean.</p><p>“I was here the whole time,” Cas said.</p><p>“But you weren’t,” Rowena told him sagely. “And you weren’t away with the fairies, either.”</p><p>“What are you talking about?” Dean said.</p><p>Rowena kept her inquisitive eyes on Cas. He looked back at her, gaze blank and guarded. She said, “The last time you and I met… we were in town. Do you remember?” He nodded slowly, pressing his lips together. Dean furrowed his brow. “I tried to warn you about… well, this, I suppose. Your death. And I attempted to show you the warnings I’d been given. But something fired back at me. It was… Cold.” Something passed over her face, like she was remembering some trauma she’d rather forget. Like she was scared. “Emptiness.”</p><p>That sounded familiar. Dean studied Cas’ face.</p><p>It took a second for Cas to speak at all. “It’s what happens when I go to sleep,” he said. “And… in the manor. I’d lose time.”</p><p>“And when you’re awake?” Rowena asked.</p><p>Dean felt cold now, too. He thought about all the times he’d caught Cas zoning out. He tried to catch Cas’ gaze, but Cas cast his eyes downward.</p><p>“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Maybe.”</p><p>Dean was really freaking out now. He took in a steadying breath and pulled at his mouth. “What is that? Is it like—like him crossing over to the other side or something?” He was going to be sick. He had to fist his hands at his sides to prevent himself from clutching onto Cas, like that could stop death from taking him.</p><p>Rowena gave an unsure sound. “Possibly. But—well, the Men of Letter outlawed necromancy. They enforced it strictly. No one’s come back from the dead for centuries, but even when they did… Usually, they had no memory of where they’d been. Or they’d recall a feeling of peace or anger and hatred. But this? I’ve never even <em>heard</em> of anything like this.”</p><p>Dean’s anger spiked again. “That’s a lot of things you’ve never heard of. We came here for answers!”</p><p>“Dean,” Sam warned sharply. He stood up and joined them. “There’s something I don’t get. Dean and Cas are married now. Shouldn’t that have brought Cas back?”</p><p>Dean hadn’t even thought of that. Hope sprouted inside of him—until he realized that it <em>hadn’t</em> worked. Cas was still half-dead. And that meant…</p><p>He cast a sideways look at Cas, as if he could find the answer written on his face.</p><p>What if Cas didn’t love him anymore? What if that’s why it didn’t work?</p><p>“It’s very mortal of you to think so narrowly, Samuel,” Rowena reproved. “Yes, certainly, marriage could have been the answer, but so could a number of things. I don’t know the specifics of the spell Abaddon used.”</p><p>“Zach said <em>married</em>,” Dean insisted.</p><p>“He may have also misunderstood,” Rowena explained.</p><p>Sam scrubbed his hands down his face. “Okay, wait. There’s gotta be <em>some</em> way of bringing him back, Rowena.”</p><p>She looked at the three of them in turn, seeming to think hard. They all stared back at her. Dean’s heart was going to burst in anticipation. Pessimistically, he thought she’d say there wasn’t and that was final.</p><p>“There may be,” she said, and she might as well have said there was a simple, surefire way for the visceral reaction it sparked in Dean’s chest. She quickly turned and went to the Book of the Damned, flipping through the pages hurriedly. “Maybe… if we finish the spell…”</p><p>“Spell?” Dean said, latching onto hope and sinking his nails in.</p><p>“Yes.” The pages stopped rustling. “There!” Sam walked over and intently studied the page. While he did, Rowena explained, “The spell we began 150 years ago. Castiel has a corporal form now, so it may be easier to execute. Less could go wrong.”</p><p>Dean didn’t <em>love</em> the sound of that. “What went wrong the first time?”</p><p>Rowena grimaced innocently. “I’m not certain,” she admitted. “It <em>should</em> have worked. For a moment, it looked like it had but then… Well. There was resistance. I’m not sure what from. And then you died.”</p><p>Blood. It was everywhere. Blood and anguish and screams tearing from his throat. And fear. He remembered the fear most of all.</p><p>Dean looked down at himself, making sure he wasn’t covered in blood.</p><p>He didn’t want to remember. But he thought he already did. He’d been dreaming about his own death for weeks.</p><p>Distantly, he heard Sam give a sardonic scoff. “What? <em>No</em>.”</p><p>Dean’s eyes snapped up, not willing to let go of their only chance so easily. “Sam—”</p><p>“No!” Sam yelled, angry and aghast. “No way, Dean! We’re not doing something that killed you!”</p><p>“Dean, listen to him,” Cas urged from over Dean’s shoulder.</p><p>“And what, Cas? Leave you dead?” Dean challenged, looking around. Cas couldn’t hold his stare for long. Dean turned his attention to Rowena. Bracing himself, he said, “What’s the spell?”</p><p>“You see, magic this powerful demands balance, yes? A life for a life. It’s why Castiel’s mother died so he could live. But it also requires <em>connection</em>, such as the connection you and Castiel share.”</p><p><em>Love</em>, Dean interpreted. He didn’t say it out loud.</p><p>Rowena continued, “Last time, we attempted to use that connection to bring him back to life by drawing energy from your soul to give to his lifeforce. Almost like a magnetic pull.”</p><p>“Like a soul bonding?” Sam said, and Rowena nodded. Dean wondered how Sam knew that. He wondered if, maybe, Sam was remembering his past life. He’d always had such weird, random knowledge of things. Maybe, subconsciously, he’d always remembered.</p><p>“But it didn’t work,” Cas reminded her.</p><p>Dean tried to swallow. Had Cas ever loved him? Is that why it hadn’t worked in the first place?</p><p>“It partly did,” Rowena corrected. “I’d say that your time in the veil and the simple fact that Dean was reincarnated is evidence of that, wouldn’t you?”</p><p>“But you don’t know for sure,” Sam argued.</p><p>“No,” she admitted. “But it’s also possible that Dean may be the only thing keeping Castiel in the mortal world now.”</p><p>That couldn’t be right. Dean didn’t know if he was capable of such powerful love. He turned back around to Cas to gauge his reaction. Cas’ eyes were already waiting for him, his forehead lined in thought.</p><p>Dean’s throat constricted. “Do you… think that’s true?”</p><p>Cas’ gaze flickered downward. “I… Maybe,” he considered. “When I’m with you, I—<em>feel</em> things more intensely. I always have. But I just thought that was because… because of how I feel about you.”</p><p>Dean took a good look at Cas, not knowing whether he should be relieved or terrified. In just a few days since Cas had moved into Kelly’s, he seemed paler. His face was a little gaunter. He looked tired.</p><p>They had to do this spell. Cas had been a prisoner his whole life. And now, his life depended on Dean. As long as it did, he’d never be free.</p><p>Dean didn’t want that for him. He knew, if they didn’t try, Cas would resent him for it. Dean would be able to keep Cas at his side, but Cas would be trapped.</p><p>Dean pulled his shoulders into a line and licked his lips, mustering courage. “How do we do it?”</p><p>“<em>Dean</em>,” Sam tried.</p><p>Ignoring him, Dean said louder, “Rowena, how do we do it?”</p><p>Rowena glanced in Sam’s direction before exhaling. “Well, as I said, Castiel has his own body. There wouldn’t have to be a sacrifice.”</p><p>“But it’s still dangerous,” Sam inferred. “Dean could still die.”</p><p>“Any number of things could go wrong!” Rowena said. “Yes, he could die. Or Castiel could slip fully back into the spirit realm. Or they may never wake up. The chances aren’t <em>good</em>. I’d say they’re fifty-fifty.”</p><p>Dean clapped his hands together. “Good enough for me.”</p><p>Sam held up his palm to stop Dean. “<em>Wait</em>, okay? Is there any way we can make those odds better?”</p><p>Rowena frowned. “Possibly. If we go back to the place where their connection is strongest.”</p><p>Dean’s gut flipped. Cas beat him to it, voice strained: “The manor.”</p><p>“It’s the place where you met and had your first life together,” Rowena confirmed. And then, “It’s where you’re both buried.”</p><p>Dean froze. Sam’s head whipped around to look at her.</p><p>“What?” Dean said, stepping closer. “<em>I’m</em> buried there? I thought I was cremated?”</p><p>“You were,” Rowena said. “But it was upon your request. In the event of your death, you asked your brother and I to bury your ashes with Castiel.”</p><p>Dean’s own voice popped into his head. <em>“With Cas.”</em></p><p>He’d been at the manor this whole time.</p><p>“Finishing the ritual at the manor is our best chance,” Rowena told them, drawing Dean back into reality. “It’ll up our odds to… well, at <em>least</em> fifty-five.”</p><p>Dean thought it over. He hated everything about this, but it didn’t matter. He was saving Cas. If this was the only way, he’d take it.</p><p>“Okay, I’m in.”</p><p>Sam withered.</p><p>“Dean,” Cas whispered.</p><p>Dean looked around at him. “It’s the only way.” Cas knew that. Dean could see it on his face. So, it was settled—except maybe for one thing. He faced forward again. “Okay, one last question. What’s in it for you?”</p><p>Rowena shrugged, and there was no way she was doing this out of the kindness of her own heart. “Apart from the fee you’ll be paying me…”</p><p>Dean shot her an impatient look. “Yeah, not gonna happen.”</p><p>She sighed. “Fine. What happened all those years ago has weighed on my mind. I suppose I want to see it through. After all, I do have a reputation to uphold of being a perfect spell-caster, even if I am one of the last true witches alive.”</p><p>That was fair enough for Dean. “How do we start?”</p><p>“I’ll need time to prepare,” Rowena said. She went back to the Book of the Damned and skimmed the page. “I’ll meet you three at the manor tonight at, say, 11 o’clock. We’ll begin the ritual at midnight.”</p><p>“Why midnight?” Dean asked.</p><p>“The witching hour, Mr. Winchester,” Rowena sang as if Dean obviously should have known that. Dean tried not to roll his eyes.</p><p>He nodded instead. “Okay.” He steeled himself and told himself to be brave.</p><p>This was for Cas.</p><p>This was for both of them.</p><p>He was ending this once and for all.</p><p>“Midnight.”</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p> </p><p>Somehow, the inside of the manor seemed a lot more sinister than it had the first time Dean stepped inside it in his current life. That seemed like years ago now. He hadn’t been afraid, because he hadn’t believed in ghosts or magic. The white sheets hanging off the furniture had looked like abandoned artifacts, not phantoms. The shadowy corners hadn’t looked so dark, so vastly empty.</p><p>The whole place was full of ghosts now. He looked in the direction of the kitchen and thought he could smell Benny cooking pie. He saw the dust caked onto the sconces and could practically hear Jo humming as she worked. Charles Novak’s damaged and destroyed visage lorded over the entrance foyer.</p><p>And there was music. Piano music. It drifted through the corridors, swept up in the breeze that whistled against the rotting wood.</p><p>The piano itself was in ruins, nothing but a termite-ridden hunk that had toppled over. Dead ivy snaked in and out of what was left of it. Cas was staring at it sadly. Dean wondered how often he’d done that in his time in the manor: stood over the piano, watching it fall to disuse and decay, wishing he could play it.</p><p>Dean stood in the threshold, half-inside the music room and half-in the hallway. He watched Sam and Rowena in the foyer, the two of them setting up candles in strategic spots and painting sigils from the Book of the Damned on the carpet. Dean was starting to get light headed from the fragrant scent of the herbs smoldering in a large bowl. Sam followed Rowena’s instruction, his posture suggesting he was holding himself back from begging Dean to call the whole thing off.</p><p>All of it was starting to feel way too familiar.</p><p>Dean checked his watch. Five minutes to midnight.</p><p>He scrubbed his hand down his face, telling himself to be brave. He had to be. For Cas. It was the only way.</p><p>The weight of Cas’ gaze was on him. Dean could feel it like a balm on his skin. He looked over, holding Cas’ eyes. Cas pressed his mouth together in a weak attempt at a smile. Dean did the same thing.</p><p>Cas had barely said a word since they left for the manor—not that Dean blamed him. But, he figured, if something did go wrong, now was their last chance to say anything to one another for a very long time. Maybe forever.</p><p>He stepped fully into the room, blowing out his checks and slapping his arms against his sides. “Looks like they’re almost done out there,” he said lamely.</p><p>Cas nodded, glancing around the room. “Dean, we’re… You’re sure you want to do this?”</p><p>Dean almost laughed. “Want to? I wouldn’t exactly say <em>that</em>.” Cas looked at him directly, eyes narrowed. Dean gave up the act. “I dunno, Cas. But what’s the alternative? Leaving you dead?”</p><p>“No, but—” Cas shook his head. “I don’t want you to die for me.” And it felt like it was a little too late for that because, apparently, he already had. It scared the shit out of him, but he knew he’d do it again if he had to.</p><p>But, the thing was, if one of them survived this, he had a feeling it’d be him. He didn’t know if he was just being pessimistic or if it was some knowledge leftover from his last life, but he thought it was a lot more likely that Cas could go back to being all the way dead.</p><p>The thought made his blood run cold. He looked down at his boots, toeing at a hole in the floorboard. Their odds weren’t exactly stellar. Maybe they <em>were</em> making a mistake. “Yeah,” he allowed, the word getting stuck in his throat. He tried to swallow. “Yeah, maybe… What if something <em>does</em> go wrong? I mean…” He looked back up at Cas, trying for a shaky smile. It must have looked more like a twisted grimace. His eyes were stinging. “I just got you back.”</p><p>Cas’ eyes pulled downward, filling with sadness.</p><p>“And I know I did a piss-poor job at keeping you,” Dean said apologetically.</p><p>“Dean,” Cas whispered.</p><p>Dean didn’t want to be let off the hook. Not yet, anyway. Before Cas could follow that up, he kept on, “I’m the one who did this to us.” They knew that now. This was all his fault. So, if anyone was dying here, it better be him. He didn’t want to cause Cas anymore pain.</p><p>“Yeah, well,” Cas said gently. “I’m the one who killed myself in the first place. Perhaps we’re both to blame.”</p><p>Dean snorted mirthlessly, unable to argue. “Maybe. But if I got a shot of bringing you back for real, I’m gonna take it, Cas. Even if it kills me.” Something twisted low in his gut. It rose like bile, filling out the cavity of his chest, coming up his throat. It had been trying to get out from the moment he decided to do this ritualy. Because maybe he wouldn’t physically die, but he would die in every way that mattered.</p><p>“And who knows,” he told the mangled floor under his boots, “maybe I’ll go and… <em>he’ll</em> take my place.” He didn’t even know what that meant anymore. The divide between himself and his past life was so blurry at that point, it might as well have not existed at all. He’d tried so hard to grit his teeth and hold up his fists and fight for control of his own life, and half the time it felt like he was punching at the wind.</p><p>There was a ghost inhabiting his body, ever-present right beneath the skin. It walked when he walked; talked when he talked. It had the same thoughts, the same wants. And he wondered if its name was Dean Wesson, after all. Maybe he was the ghost. <em>Him</em>, Dean Winchester. Lingering, clinging to something that was no longer there. Unable to accept that he was a different person than he was before he found Cas in this life. Different from Dean Winchester. But different from Dean Wesson, too.</p><p>He just didn’t know if he, whoever he was now, was someone Cas would want.</p><p>Daring to glance up at Cas, he asked, “That’s… You want him back, don’t you?”</p><p>Cas’ face was stricken with grief. His eyes glistening, mouth parted. It took a long time for him to even pull in a breath, and when he did it was choppy and bereft. He shook his head down at the floor. “Oh, Dean.”</p><p>When Cas’ gaze lifted to him again, Dean wondered who he saw standing in front of him.</p><p>“The things I said to you… Dean, I’m…” Cas inhaled again, seeming to collect his thoughts. “When I first saw you here in the manor, I was so sure it was you. I don’t—I don’t know how I lost that. And I… I <em>don’t</em> know if you’re the same person I knew anymore. Or if you’re something more. But I do know…” Dean didn’t want to hear the rest, but he figured he owed it to Cas to say his piece. Cas tilted his chin back, eyes flickering across the ceiling. “If something does go wrong tonight… This place… If I had to, I’d wait a thousand years for you to come back.”</p><p>Dean’s vision was getting hazy. He blinked away his tears. He didn’t know what he felt more of: relief or heartache. It swelled inside of him, too big for his bones. A sad, genuine smile pulled at his cheeks. “Even though I wasn’t worth the first hundred and fifty?” he laughed.</p><p>Cas shook his head balefully. He stepped closer, reaching for Dean’s hands. His touch was light, cold fingertips skimming Dean’s palms. Almost like he wasn’t really there at all. “Dean,” he said. “You were worth every second.”</p><p>His expression was open and earnest that Dean could help but believe him. And Dean loved him so much, he’d lost his breath. He twined their fingers together, pushing his palms into Cas’.</p><p>“Guys?”</p><p>Dean quickly sniffed away his tears, hoping he could play it off as surprise. He and Cas both looked at the door, where Sam was standing. Sam glanced between them, obviously knowing he was interrupting. He said gently, “We’re ready.” He looked like he was about to march prisoners to the gallows. It didn’t exactly inspire confidence, but that was alright. The sight of him reminded Dean to be brave.</p><p>Dean squeezed Cas’ hand and let go. “Alright. Let’s do this,” he said airily, and walked for the door. The three of them went back to the foyer together.</p><p>Rowena stood there, in the same spot she had been when Dean had first laid eyes on her. She hovered on the outside of the largest sigil in the carpet, the Book of the Damned held open in his arms.</p><p>“It’s midnight,” she reported. “We can begin. The two of you, lay down inside this—” She nodded her chin down at the sigil. “Once you’re settled, Samuel and I will start the incantation.”</p><p>Dean shared a glance with Cas. He chewed on the inside of his cheek, trying not to let his doubt get to him. Cas stepped forward first, placing himself inside the sigil. He got down to the floor.</p><p>Before Dean could follow, Sam grabbed him by the arm and whispered, “You’re <em>sure</em>, right?”</p><p>Dean wanted to say no. He looked at Sam in the eyes, wishing he could hug his brother, just in case it was the last time. And there was a moment, a tingle in the back of his head, where he knew they’d done this before—and that it hadn’t worked out. That Dean had left him all alone in the world.</p><p>Dean, who taught Sam how to walk and hold a gun and play poker, who made sure he had food in his stomach and a roof over his head while Dad was off hunting, who ensured he was always safe; Dean, who picked Sam up from debate team after school while Dad was off fighting some president’s war and Mom was working another late shift, who taught Sam to drive, who gave him his first beer, who made sure he had enough lunch money and knew how to kick the bully’s asses when they picked on him.</p><p>They weren’t the only thing they had in the world anymore, but it didn’t matter. Dean had made the mistake of leaving him once. He wouldn’t do it again. He’d crawl back from death if he had to. He owed Sam that.</p><p>And he wished he could tell him that. But that would only freak Sam out.</p><p>Then, he glanced over at Cas, who was now on his back on the right side of the sigil, leaving the left side open for Dean. Just like in bed.</p><p>And, yeah, suddenly Dean was sure.</p><p>“It’ll be fine, Sammy,” Dean promised, hoping it was one he could keep. He grabbed Sam’s shoulder, giving him a solid shake and a reassuring smile that he didn’t really feel. Sam took in a deep inhale, and thankfully didn’t argue. Dean tore himself away, following Cas.</p><p>While he was getting settled on his back, Rowena told them, “Now, as the spell works, it’ll render you unconscious. During that time, there may be some side effects.”</p><p>Dean rolled his eyes, because of course there were. He slapped his hands over his stomach and tried to joke, “Great. Like blood clots, dry mouth, and stomach ulcers?” No one laughed.</p><p>“Not exactly,” Rowena explained. “Your souls will be joining. You may experience each other’s thoughts or memories. It may be difficult to know where one of you ends and the other begins—at least until you wake up.”</p><p>That didn’t sound so bad. It might have been an invasion of privacy if it was anyone but Cas. “Okay. So, do we sign a waiver now?”</p><p>Rowena sighed. “I see your sense of humor hasn’t changed.”</p><p>Sam gave a derisive snort at that as he placed himself next to Rowena.</p><p>She straightened out, clearing her throat. “Okay. To establish connection, the two of you need to be touching.”</p><p>Dean rolled his head on the carpet to look at Cas. Cas looked back. Slowly, he reached for Dean’s hand, cupping their palms. But Dean thought there might have been a better way—a <em>stronger</em> way. When Dorothy had helped him, Cas’ hand on his shoulder seemed to do the trick. Even before that, when Cas touched him there, Dean suddenly remembered things about their past.</p><p>“Hang on,” he said. He let go of Cas’ hand and sat up to get out of his jacket and flannel and toss them away. He rolled up his t-shirt sleeve to expose his shoulder. Then, he laid down on his side, facing Cas.</p><p>Cas seemed to understand. He rolled onto his side, too, and reached out. His hand hovered tentatively between them, like he was afraid to bridge the gap. Dean was, too.</p><p>But it was now or never.</p><p>He took Cas’ wrist and brought his hand to his shoulder. The pads of Cas’ fingers pressed into the skin. Dean put his hand on Cas’ hip. He stroked the bone through Cas’ shirt, trying to relax them both.</p><p>It took a second for Dean to realize that Rowena and Sam had started the incantation. He was too busy holding Cas’ eyes. Silently, he tried to convey trust. They didn’t have to resist. Whatever thoughts or memories Dean had, he trusted Cas with them. He trusted Cas with his soul.</p><p>Soon, his eyelids started to feel weary. Dean blinked rapidly, some instinct urging him to stay away, no matter how much he fought it. His thoughts began swimming; his body felt numb and heavy around him. It reminded him of going under anesthesia when he got his wisdom teeth pulled.</p><p>He glanced away from Cas, up at Sam and Rowena. Their words echoed through his skull. It was some dead language that Dean didn’t know. Except he <em>did</em> know it.</p><p>When Dean brought his gaze back down, Cas was knocked out. His eyes were closed, lips slack, temple against the carpet. Dean couldn’t decide if he looked like he was sleeping or if he looked dead.</p><p>He couldn’t fight it anymore. His eyes slipped closed.</p><p>The last thing he remembered thinking about was how flawlessly Sam pronounced every word of the incantation.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>hope the plot twist made you all sit bolt upright!! hahaha i've been so excited for y'all to finally KNOW!! (but there's still more to come, don't worry. we ain't done yet!) let me know what you thought about it in the comments &lt;3</p><p>also, one last thing before you go! the last three chapters (23, 24, and 25) break from the present/past and alternating POV format, so instead of posting them two per week, i'll be posting one chapter per week moving forward. (hopefully none of you will mind, especially because chapters 23 and 24 are just STUPID long! they are so ridiculously long lmao i'm so sorry) and hopefully you'll all be happy about having this fic for a week longer than you anticipated.</p><p>see you next time!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0023"><h2>23. Chapter 23</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>
  <b>CONTENT WARNING! (also spoilers for the next two chapters)</b>
</p><p>hi. i just wanted to add a quick cw before we get started. obviously, you all knew that 1800s cas was going to commit suicide at some point in this fic. this is it. i don't show anything explicitly except for a tiny bit of the aftermath at the end of the chapter, but this chapter is still pretty heavy. i'm not gonna lie.</p><p>so, if you're not in a good place mentally or emotionally right now, i encourage you to hold off on reading this one until you feel better. no amount of hits or kudos or comments will ever be as important to me as your mental health. please take care of yourself.</p><p>(i'll also be putting a cw on next week's chapter when we see dean's side of things.)</p><p>that being said, i PROMISE YOU that this fic has a happy ending! cross my heart. i just have to put us all through hell first. so, if you'd like to join me in the fiery deeps, let's go, hand in hand.......</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>June 1868</strong>
</p><p>The argument had given way to a long stretch of silence. Castiel had no idea why his father was still there. As soon as Dean and Zachariah walked out of the door, Chuck began harassing Castiel on how his priorities should lay with his betrothed, and how he had a responsibility to her and to himself—to the good Novak name, to the firm, to society in general. And Castiel had heard more than enough.</p><p>He would no longer bow to his father’s control, nor would he be treated like he was a passive force in his own life. He would not be told how to live or who he was allowed to associate with—especially who he was allowed to love. He reiterated, again and again, that he was leaving with Dean; the only way Chuck could stop him was if the wedding was called off and Castiel was given free reign over his own affairs. As predicted, it didn’t go over well.</p><p>Chuck had yelled some more.</p><p>Castiel only glowered in response. He’d said all he had to.</p><p>Apparently, his father had, as well, and now they were locked in some strange battle of wills. Chuck sat on the end of the bed, folding his arms and shaking his head down at the carpet. Castiel barely paid him any mind. He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, wondering what the hell was taking Dean so long. The sooner he came back, the sooner they could leave. Castiel didn’t care if his father was there to bear witness to that anymore. Castiel wouldn’t allow him or anyone else to stop them.</p><p>There was a knock at the door. Castiel blinked, realizing he’d been staring into the middle distance for some time, and stood up straighter. The knock didn’t sound like Dean’s.</p><p>“Come in,” Chuck said, half-glancing in the door’s direction.</p><p>Zachariah walked in, and Castiel looked over the butler’s shoulder, waiting for Dean to follow. The only thing there was empty space.</p><p>“Where’s Dean?” he asked at once, ignoring the nod Zachariah gave to his father, ignoring the way his own voice sounded scratched and raw.</p><p>Zachariah’s brow collapsed, as if he hadn’t expected the question. “Dean? Oh, he left about an hour ago. I’d say he’s on a train headed to the frontier by now.”</p><p>Castiel’s mouth parted. The floor dropped out from under him. “What are you talking about?”</p><p>Zachariah was wrong. Dean wouldn’t leave Castiel. It was a lie.</p><p>“He’s gone,” Zachariah said more plainly.</p><p>Castiel shook his head, panic clogging his throat. It wasn’t true. He rushed to look out the window, across the lawn toward Dean’s apartment. There wasn’t a light on inside.</p><p>Panic was turning to terror.</p><p>Dean couldn’t be gone. He would have never left of his own free will. Zachariah must have fired him—but it didn’t matter. Dean would refuse to leave. He’d stand his ground and wait for Castiel to retrieve him so they could leave.</p><p>Castiel couldn’t find air to breathe. Every time he inhaled, his lungs rejected it. His wide eyes stared back at him in the reflection of the window, visage transparent.</p><p>“It didn’t take much convincing him, either,” Zachariah was saying. “All I had to do was offer him $5,000 in exchange for his cooperation. He seemed more than happy to leave once he had the money in hand.”</p><p>Cold. Castiel felt cold. It was beginning to numb his fingertips, crawl up his spine, lick at the back of his neck. He wheeled around, mustering all the heat he had inside of him and directing it at Zachariah.</p><p>“You’re lying!”</p><p>Something in the back of his head told him Zachariah wasn’t lying, after all. That Dean had left him.</p><p>He stomped closer, placing himself in Zachariah’s space. He was taller than the butler, and he did all he could do make every inch seem imposing. “Where is he?”</p><p>From the sidelines, Castiel heard Chuck sigh. “Castiel, he’s gone,” he said, sounding tired. Castiel swung his glare toward him, but Chuck wasn’t looking. He was rubbing at his eyes. “I know this is hard, okay? But it goes back to what I was just trying to tell you. Staff members aren’t your friends. It’s better that you learn that lesson now.”</p><p>He was right. Dean wasn’t Castiel’s <em>friend</em>. He was so much more than that.</p><p>Castiel wouldn’t stand there and listen to this. He needed to find Dean. They were leaving—together. That had been the plan.</p><p>But Castiel had expressed doubt in the plan earlier. Dean had been frustrated with him.</p><p>But it didn’t matter. They were leaving together. It’s what Castiel wanted, despite his momentary lapse in judgement. Dean knew that.</p><p>“You’re both lying,” Castiel gritted out, aware of the desperation creeping into his tone. He tore from the room, ignoring Chuck calling his name. Ignoring the hurried footsteps after him.</p><p>When he got to the mezzanine, Dean wasn’t in the foyer below. Castiel fisted his hands at his sides, knowing he’d been foolish for expecting Dean to be waiting for him by the front door. Dean would hide, bide his time. But he didn’t need to. No one would stop them.</p><p>“Dean?” he called, rushing down the steps. His own voice answered him, echoing back off the high ceiling.</p><p>“Castiel,” Chuck said, appearing at the railing upstairs. Zachariah was just over his shoulder.</p><p>Castiel went to the music room, ripping open the door. Dean wasn’t inside.</p><p>“Dean!” He ran to the kitchen, finding it dark and empty.</p><p>He didn’t know where to look next. The voice in the back of his head was growing louder, spreading out to the rest of his mind.</p><p><em>Dean’s gone</em>.</p><p>No. He couldn’t be. He’d told Castiel he’d never leave him. He certainly wouldn’t trade Castiel for money. Castiel clung to that, guarding it stubbornly inside his chest. It was the only thought that kept his heart beating. He knew Dean, and he knew Dean would stay with him.</p><p>By the time he got back to the foyer, his father and Zachariah were at the bottom of the stairs.</p><p>Chuck dropped his shoulders in a sigh, visibly forcing patience. Castiel knew that look as a warning. Fury was simmering just under the surface. But he didn’t care. He had to find Dean.</p><p>“Castiel,” Chuck said again.</p><p>Castiel didn’t listen. A thought struck him. He looked toward the backdoor—beyond it, into the woods. Their garden. Dean would be waiting for him in their garden.</p><p>He rushed for the back of the house, his father’s words hardly reaching him: “Where’s he going now?”</p><p>“Leave him, sir,” Zachariah said. “He’ll figure it out for himself.”</p><p>The door clattered behind Castiel. Outside, the air was burned with heat and hazy with humidity. Castiel could barely feel summer on his skin. The chill in his bones remained prevalent. The chirping of the insects in the grass counted the seconds. He felt like he was running out of time.</p><p>He hardly knew how he got to the woods at the back of the property. His head was filled with static. Although he could still see, he felt blind. There was darkness in the corners of his vision—a tunnel leading him through the bramble and trees to the garden. He smacked spindly, low hanging branches out of his path as he went, only distantly aware of the slashes they cut into his palm.</p><p>“Dean?” he called, the name sitting thick against his Adam’s apple, as he skidded to a halt in the clearing.</p><p>The moonlight illuminated the garden, catching on the bench’s silhouette and sparkling silver on the trickling steam.</p><p>And Dean wasn’t there.</p><p>Castiel didn’t understand. He blinked around, the air coming out of his lips in broken gasps, and he didn’t know if that was from the running or from realization.</p><p>“Dean?” he said again, voice lower, expecting Dean to step out of the trees and grab his hand.</p><p>He looked down at the stinging cuts on his palm. Blood glimmered in the low light.</p><p>Dean wasn’t there.</p><p>It was all Castiel’s fault. He should have never let his fears get the better of him, should have never argued about their escape. Dean saw Castiel expressing his anxieties and must have decided Castiel had changed his mind. That Castiel wanted to stay in Amherst, to marry Daphne, to live the life that had been set out before him. Dean thought he’d given up on him, and that Castiel was no longer worth the trouble, so he left.</p><p><em>Dean is gone</em>.</p><p>Castiel might have been angry if he felt anything at all. It wasn’t heartbreak. It didn’t hurt. It was as if his heart had simply been replaced by a vast void at his center.</p><p>Everything was numb but for his raw and stinging hands. He was bleeding. It was the only indication he had that he was still alive.</p><p>He wished he wasn’t bleeding.</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>July 1868</strong>
</p><p>Dean was practically dragged through the front gate of Bobby’s property. It was on the outskirts of Boston, just far enough from the hustle and bustle to not hear the noise from the nearby cobbled streets of Allston, but close enough to see the glow of a thousand lanterns reflect in a halo around the Charles River in the distance. The looming shadows of the stagecoaches, wagons, and buckboards under repair near the workshop silently watched over them. Toward the back of the property, the scrapyard was a dark mound of wood, splintered wheels, and rusting metal.</p><p>In the pen near the barn, a horse whinnied, probably spooked. Dean toasted the bottle clutched by the neck in his fist at the animal. The liquor inside sloshed and caught the moonlight. “Yeah, back at ya,” he slurred, then took a long drink and felt the whiskey burn past his aching heart.</p><p>His face hurt. He vaguely remembered bloody knuckles flying toward him. Someone had kicked his ribs, bruising them up pretty good; he could tell every time he took another stumbling step. He wondered if he’d gotten any punches in. The stiffness in his knuckles said yes.</p><p>“Stop it. Dee—Dean! Would you just—” Sam huffed as he corrected their path toward the house. Dean hadn’t even realized he’d strayed from it. His arm was slung around Sam’s shoulder, and Sam was basically holding him up by the waist of his pants.</p><p>Dean didn’t remember the walk back to Bobby’s. He didn’t remember Sam showing up at the pub. He barely even recalled getting to the pub himself, much less what he’d done to deserve a black eye—even though he was <em>sure</em> he deserved it for something.</p><p>But that was pretty par for the course recently. The entire past month was a blur. The last clear memory he had was leaving the manor, getting on the train to Boston, and watching Sam’s brow collapse in a mixture of confusion and concern when he realized Dean had arrived alone. They went straight to Bobby’s, and it was easier to pick up a bottle of moonshine than it was to tell them what happened.</p><p>Dean really hadn’t put the whiskey down since. Every time he tried, he remembered the fact that Cas probably hated him and Dean had no choice but to make sure Cas <em>kept</em> hating him.</p><p>“Inside,” Sam’s voice guided him. He shifted his grip on Dean and pulled him through the door. The house was quiet and dark. Bobby was probably in the back room, fast asleep.</p><p>“I got it, Sammy,” Dean grunted, trying to shove Sam off of him.</p><p>Sam only grabbed him tighter and shepherded him to their sleeping pallets on the floor of the front room. He deposited Dean on one of them, and Dean groaned at the flash of pain in his elbow from knocking against the floor under the blankets and woolens. Some of his whiskey had slopped out of the bottle and down his shirt. Uncaring, Dean took a swing and laid back against the blankets.</p><p>The pallet was too small for him. It was the same one he’d used as a kid when he and Sam would stay at Bobby’s. His feet jutted off the bottom of it, so Dean bent his legs up, trying to get comfortable. His stomach was roiling with liquor, and there was something thick sitting inside his throat.</p><p>He blinked around the room, at the ancient tomes on Bobby’s bookshelves, the battered maps hanging on the walls, the trunks in the corner and filled with talismans, herbs, and iron. Salt lined every window, and ruins were carved into the entranceways. It was the closest thing to home Dean had ever known.</p><p>Except maybe Lawrence—a long time ago.</p><p>Except the manor—and Cas.</p><p>There was a noise coming from the kitchen on the other side of the house. A sloshing sound. Dean lolled his head in that direction to see Sam’s gigantic shadow over the sink, filling something at the water pump. Sam brought over a tin cup filled with water, crouched down, and held it out to Dean. “Drink this.”</p><p>Dean grumbled, trying to swat him away. “’M fine.”</p><p>Sam’s expression, which was already pretty pissed off, became even <em>more</em> pissed off. He sighed, obviously going to patience. “Dean, just drink the damn water.” His patience, apparently, was running short. Dean couldn’t blame him. But, while Dean was alienating everyone he loved, he might as well make Sam hate him, too.</p><p>He took a pull of the whiskey—and Sam ripped the bottle right out of his mouth. “<em>Hey</em>!”</p><p>“No more of this,” Sam said, holding up the bottle and tearing it out of reach when Dean went for it.</p><p>“Sam!” Dean warned, using his big brother voice, even though he knew Sam was immune to it by now.</p><p>Sam set both the water and whiskey to the side. He passed the back of his wrist across his brow and sighed heavily. “Okay—you know what, Dean, enough,” he said. “It’s been over a month since you got back and you still haven’t told me what happened.”</p><p>Dean didn’t want to talk about it. He closed his eyes, wondering if he could pretend he was asleep. But, whenever he closed his eyes for two long, he saw a set of blue ones staring back at him. He could still hear Cas’ voice in his head. It was there all the time.</p><p>His eyes started welling and burning. He blinked them open, trying to rid himself of emotion.</p><p><em>Boys don’t cry</em>, he reminded himself. At least, for a single moment, Cas’ voice was replaced with John’s. Mary always let him cry—and then Dean wasn’t even allowed to do it when he’d been told she was dead.</p><p>Dean always let Sam cry when their father wasn’t around. But he never did it around Sam, and he wasn’t going to start now. Not even when Sam, cheeks dry, kept staring at Dean with helpless, forlorn eyes that shimmered in the silver light of the moon spilling through the windows.</p><p>“What, did Cas change his mind about leaving?” Sam prompted.</p><p>Dean scoffed wetly. “No. No—He—” He skewed his eyes closed again. “I left.”</p><p>“What?” Sam asked, like he hadn’t expected Dean to say anything at all. “Why?”</p><p>It was funny, actually. Dean realized it was funny. His laugh sounded wetter and thicker than it should have. “’Cause he’ll die if he leaves.” It was funny, because Cas was alive but for all he was haunting Dean, he might as well have been a ghost. But he wasn’t dead, and that was the <em>only</em> important thing, even if Dean could never see him again. “He needs to—get married. Or he’s dead.”</p><p>Dean hadn’t been able to say goodbye. He hadn’t been able to cry. If he did either of those things, Cas would know Dean didn’t want to leave. He’d cling to that. He’d know Dean still loved him, and if he knew that, he’d never move on and fall in love with Daphne.</p><p>“Can’t do that with me there,” Dean explained, but he wasn’t sure he was making sense. “I’d get in the way.”</p><p>Cas had to hate Dean because, if he didn’t, he’d die. Dean <em>needed</em> Cas to hate him.</p><p>He thought he might vomit.</p><p>“Dean, you’re not—” Sam said, shaking his head, visibly trying to piece the puzzle together. “Why would he die?”</p><p>“Abaddon.”</p><p>Sam jerked his head back, and if there was enough light in the room, Dean might have seen the color drain from his face. “What?” he said again, voice tight.</p><p>Dean rolled his head from side to side on the blanket until it made him dizzy. “Better this way,” he whispered. Actually, this spell—this curse—was the best thing that ever happened to Cas. It saved him from a life with Dean. Because, spell or not, Dean would have gotten Cas killed eventually.</p><p>It’s how it always ended. People died or went away, so Dean learned to leave before anyone else got a chance to. He was doing them a favor. Dean was the real curse. That didn’t change just because Cas was the only one who ever made him want to stay.</p><p>He blinked up at his brother, heart constricting behind his ribs. “You shoulda gone t’California.”</p><p>Sam sighed. “Dean, we’ve had this conversation.” Did they? Dean couldn’t remember. “I’m not going without you.”</p><p>Dean snorted, because it was such a <em>Sam</em> answer. Secretly, Dean was glad for it. At least Sam was sticking around. Dean didn’t know what he’d do if he didn’t.</p><p>“Your funeral.”</p><p>He was too tired to argue, but he would never go to California now. He had to stay in Boston. He had to stay close to Cas, even if he could never see him again. Because, at least in Boston, Dean could still feel him. He still knew, somehow, Cas was alive. There would be too many miles between them in California. Dean feared he wouldn’t be able to feel him anymore.</p><p>Dean wanted Cas to keep haunting him.</p><p>Apparently, Sam was sick of arguing, too. He hovered over Dean for a little while longer before getting up and going to his own pallet.</p><p>Dean watched his shadow moving around—and then something hit him. He’d told Sam about Cas. Sam would try to <em>help</em>. It would only make it worse.</p><p>He jack-knifed off the bed, feeling woozy for it. Sam froze, head snapping toward him.</p><p>“Don’t try it,” Dean warned.</p><p>“What? Dean, what the hell are you—”</p><p>“Cas!” Dean order. “Don’t try to find a way out of it. You leave it alone, got it?”</p><p>“Dean, I don’t even know what you want me to leave alone.”</p><p>Dean didn’t believe him, but it was good enough for now. He sunk back against his bedroll. The liquor turned uncomfortably in his gut.</p><p>“Jus’ leave it alone, Sammy.”</p><p>His eyes were closed for too long. Cas stared back at him. Dean imagined Cas lying next to him, his arm over Dean’s torso, his hair tickling Dean’s chin. It almost felt real.</p><p>Cas was still alive. It was more than Dean could say about himself.</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>August 1868</strong>
</p><p>The lapping of the stream had once sounded so serene. Just a year ago, Castiel would waste entire days in the garden, the warm breeze rustling through the leaves and sweeping beneath his shirt’s collar to provide relief from the heat of the day. The lazy sunlight would drip like honey through the canopy above. He’d have his hands on Dean’s scalp, fingers carding through the highlights that the summer had baked into his tweed-colored hair. Dean would leave to complete a task, only to return hours later with a bouquet of roses or carnations to present to Castiel. Sometimes, they’d sit there until the purple twilight shaded the world like a paintbrush on canvas.</p><p>Now, when Castiel sat in the garden, he did not feel the sanguine sense of summer. Languid, warm days were now laden with fatigue. The gurgling stream produced the sounds of a drowning man gasping for breath. There were no flowers; all of them were wilted and shriveled on the dirt beds, and even the grass was browning and growing tall with weeds. Dean had left, and he would not return this time.</p><p>Some days, Castiel still lost track of time and would spend all day in the garden. But he couldn’t feel the warmth. The breeze only served to rattle his spine. His fingers still felt as brittle as they did in the frost, and the sunrays dimmed before reaching his face. Twilight, when it came, marred the world like a bruise on white flesh.</p><p>He didn’t know why he still came out to the garden. Lately, he hated it more than he did the cemetery. The graves behind the iron gate now called to him, inviting him into their safety and peace. And the garden no longer felt safe; instead, it was a tomb that Castiel frequented out of some stubborn refusal to accept that the life he’d once known was gone.</p><p>But there was a prayer on his lips each time he trudged through the woods to the garden. Faith that one day he’d arrive and Dean would be waiting for him. Or perhaps, if Castiel sat long enough, he would hear a rustling of leaves, and Dean would appear through the trees. The sunlight and warmth would follow him in. He would sit between Castiel’s knees, and Castiel would thread his fingers through his hair, and the last three months would be forgotten like a dream.</p><p>At first, the hope of such a thing had quickened Castiel’s heart. Now, it was muscle memory. He wondered if, one day, his body would forget. If so, too, he would close his eyes, and Dean’s face would be blurred. If the memory of Dean’s voice would slip away from him. If the stars in the night sky would ever form the constellations that the Romans and Greeks had drawn into them instead of scattering to emulate the freckles on Dean’s shoulders.</p><p>Castiel didn’t hope anymore. And dreams? He didn’t think he had those, either. Dean had packed them in his luggage and stole away with them in the night.</p><p>Sometimes, when Castiel was angry enough, Castiel entertained the idea of going after Dean. The problem was, he didn’t know where Dean had gone. Boston? California? Even if he were to make his own way to the west coast, how would he begin to find Dean? Castiel barely knew the world outside of New England, let alone Amherst. The miles between the manor and California were vast. His only option in getting there would be the railroad and all its common routes. It would take no time at all for his father to find him.</p><p>Other times, he considered taking out on his own—without Dean. If Dean didn’t want him, so be it. Castiel didn’t need him. He’d leave and begin life anew elsewhere.</p><p>He assumed he wouldn’t even last a year before he ended up in the dirt.</p><p>He no longer considered running away. What was the point? Anywhere he went, he’d carry the emptiness in his chest with him. The shadow at his back would follow, its icy fingers grasping his coattails to hang on. Stay or leave, it hardly mattered. One day, that shadow would be on the other side of him—face to terrible face.</p><p>When the time came, he thought he’d welcome it.</p><p>Castiel let out a breath and looked down at his fingers curling lifelessly upward as his hands rested on his lap. The sun glare sat high in the sky, and he realized he’d spend the entire morning outside. It felt like no time at all.</p><p>He stood up from the bench and retied the rope of Dean’s robe tighter around his waist. One last glance around told him, predictably, that no one was coming for him. The fact of that had stopped causing Castiel’s heart to sink weeks ago.</p><p>He headed back in the direction of the manor, his slippers sinking and sticking in the mud that had formed after last night’s rains. It dirtied the bottoms of his silk pajama’s trousers. He hardly noticed any of it.</p><p>When he broke the tree line, he winced against the too-bright sun in the bleached afternoon sky. He wanted to be inside, away from the light and the pungent odor of scorching earth.</p><p>As he walked across the ground toward the house, he caught sight of the new groundskeeper lunching in the shade of the carriage house. He was a tall man with sandy hair and light features. Castiel didn’t know his name. He did his best to pretend the man didn’t even exist.</p><p>When he got into the house, he went straight for the music room. Again, it was muscle memory. He’d sit at the piano, play a tune, and wait for Dean to waltz through the door and sit beside him. The threshold, of course, remained forever vacant. And still, to that day, Castiel kept the door ajar.</p><p>And he kept waiting. Always waiting.</p><p>Only, when he reached it, the door was already open and voices were coming from inside. They stopped the moment Castiel entered, and Balthazar and Gabriel’s faces turned in his direction.</p><p>Castiel withered, too exhausted to throw them a heated glare. He wanted to be alone. He certainly hadn’t invited them over, and now they were looking at him with wide eyes and slack jaws.</p><p>“Castiel?” Gabriel said, still gaping.</p><p>Beneath his words, he heard Balthazar whisper, “Good Lord…”</p><p>Castiel’s eyes were dry with the need for sleep. He wasn’t in the mood to entertain company. “What are you doing here?” he asked, his voice coming out cracked and raw. He realized he hadn’t spoken a single word all day. If he cared to consider it, he’d wonder if he’d spoken at all the day before, either. But it wasn’t worth the time it’d take to ponder the matter.</p><p>“To see you,” Balthazar said as the two of them stood up from their place on the couch. “We were told you’ve been feeling under the weather.”</p><p>Castiel didn’t know who’d told them that. He walked across the room to the piano. “I’m fine.”</p><p>“You sure about that?” Gabriel asked, body turning to keep Castiel in his line of vision. “Because, I gotta say, you look like a mad man. Little late in the day to be in dirty pajamas.”</p><p>Castiel sat in front of the piano, but his fists curled in his lap. He felt the pull of sinew and the way his fingernails dug into the meat of his palm. Both sensations were distant, like they were happening to someone else.</p><p>“Have you seen a doctor?” Balthazar asked.</p><p>“No,” he said, simply going through the motions of politeness. “Thank you for your concern.”</p><p>He wanted them to leave. Like everyone left. His mother, Anna, Dean. They left, because Castiel was <em>wrong</em>. Ill-made and undeserving. All of them escaped to better things. Anna: to love. His mother: to peace. Dean: to freedom.</p><p>Castiel had been so close to freedom, had once held love in the palm of his hand. The knowledge of that was the only thing he truly felt anymore. It hung around his neck like a noose.</p><p>Sometimes, he thought <em>peace</em> was the only thing left for him now.</p><p>“Please leave,” Castiel told them, not looking up from the black and white keys before him.</p><p>“Leave?” Gabriel echoed in a scoff. “No way. C’mon, get dressed. Let’s go out! We could go riding or—or maybe take a trip into town, huh?” He said it like either of those things were enticing. “Some sun might do you some good. You look like you haven’t seen daylight in months.”</p><p>How true that was.</p><p>“I agree,” Balthazar chimed in. “Please, Cassie, join us. You haven’t graced us with your sullen glare in quite a while.”</p><p>Castiel put his hands on the keys and started playing. He didn’t know what. He let his fingers decide. The music sounded hollow to his ears.</p><p>He heard Gabriel sigh in frustration. “Fine. Okay, if that’s what you want. Have it your way!” He started for the door. “But don’t say I didn’t try. Come on, Balthazar. Let’s go do something <em>fun</em>.”</p><p>Balthazar swiveled around to watch him leave. His head was ducked. “Yes, I… In a moment.”</p><p>Gabriel waved him off with annoyance and left, and Castiel felt a certain sense of vindication that he’d been right. Another person left him and he was the one to drive them away.</p><p>But why was Balthazar still there? Why was he pacing closer to the piano, eyes sad, moving slowly as if not to spook a fragile, wounded animal?</p><p>“Castiel,” he whispered.</p><p>Castiel stopped playing so abruptly, the notes died without echoing against the ceiling. He stared ahead, eyes fixed on nothing.</p><p>“Do come with us,” Balthazar asked again. “Or, if you don’t wish to spend time with your friends, seek out Daphne. Whatever’s ailing you, I’m certain it’s nothing an afternoon with your love won’t fix.”</p><p>Castiel tensed his jaw, physically preventing himself from lashing out. He wanted to tell Balthazar to stop speaking. To go away and never come back. To take his ideas and antics to someone who gave a damn. But he knew none of it would work.</p><p>Maybe there was only one thing that <em>would</em> do the trick. One thing that would make Balthazar ashamed to know him, to never want to look at him again.</p><p>“I would,” Castiel said, “but he’s gone.”</p><p>Silence fell. Deep, deep down in Castiel’s stomach, he felt shame curling upward like smoke. He shouldn’t have said anything. He shouldn’t have tried to push Balthazar away. If Balthazar left, that would be it. Everyone would have given up on him. Castiel would have no reason to continue going through the motions.</p><p>Perhaps that was what he wanted.</p><p>“He?” Balthazar breathed out after some time, but he didn’t sound angry or disgusted. He sounded despondent. “It’s that gardener… isn’t it?”</p><p>Castiel wondered how long he’d suspected.</p><p>“Oh, Castiel…”</p><p>No. Castiel didn’t want his pity or acceptance. He didn’t want anything.</p><p>Keeping his face forward, he said, “Please leave.”</p><p>For a long time, he thought Balthazar wouldn’t. Balthazar lingered, his eyes a sympathetic touch to the side of Castiel’s cheek. Then, he breathed out and slouched toward the door. Castiel refused to look in his direction.</p><p>In the threshold, Balthazar paused again. He looked around. “Castiel? You will call around, won’t you? Should you have the need?”</p><p>Castiel felt strangled. He couldn’t speak.</p><p>He told himself it was nothing more than a polite gesture. He ignored how genuine Balthazar’s tone was, and the fact that it was something he so rarely heard coming from his friend’s mouth.</p><p>Balthazar turned around again, stepped into the hall, and paused once more. He looked back at Castiel, mouth open like he was going to say something else. But then he shook his head and disappeared from the threshold.</p><p>Castiel’s fingers hovered over the keys before he decided playing wasn’t worth the effort. Slowly, he reached for the fallboard and closed it.</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>September 1868</strong>
</p><p>A bucket of water to the face. That’s how Dean was woken up. He jerked into consciousness with a yelp, the pile of hay beneath him now sopping and plastered to the clothes he’d fallen asleep in the night before. When the initial shock wore off, his anger spiked—but his head was pounding too hard for any kind of emotion to last long.</p><p>He held up his hand to shield himself from the stream of sunlight that cut across the barn floor, his eyes squinting and burning. His mouth felt like cotton and tasted like a foot.</p><p>Bobby stood nearby, bucket still in hand.</p><p>“What the hell, Bobby!” Dean yelled, his gruff voice bouncing off the walls and making him wince.</p><p>“Don’t you cuss at me, boy,” Bobby grumbled.</p><p>The mid-September chill crept into Dean’s bones, made even more unbearable by the cold water dripping off his hair. He blinked around, taking in his surroundings. He didn’t remember getting back to Bobby’s the night before, and he <em>definitely</em> didn’t remember shaking up in the barn. There was an empty bottle of moonshine on the hay next to him. A gas lantern, the flame out, was at the bottom of his makeshift bed of straw. The whole place smelled like manure, and he was sure he didn’t smell much better.</p><p>“You left the lantern on last night,” Bobby told him. “Lucky I saw it. You coulda made this whole place go up in smoke—you with it.”</p><p>Dean sat up, ignoring the straw poking through the seat of his pants. He knuckled at his eyes, just wanting Bobby to leave so he could be unconscious again. He had half a mind to say he wished the barn had set on fire while he was sleeping. It probably should have scared him, how much he actually felt that sentiment in his heart sometimes.</p><p>Especially on today of all days. It was Cas’ birthday.</p><p>They should have been celebrating together. Instead, Cas would probably have some nice, fancy dinner in the manor, Daphne hanging off his arm. They’d probably gotten real close in Dean’s absence.</p><p>He tried to remind himself that that was a good thing; otherwise, this would be Cas’ <em>last</em> birthday.</p><p>“Yeah, and you didn’t think to bring me a blanket?” Dean griped.</p><p>“I look like room service to you?” Bobby walked to the corner of the barn and set the pale down next to some old, torn up saddles and reins. Dean took the opportunity to swipe the excess water from his hair. He was aware of Bobby turning to face him again, as well as the pitying look on Bobby’s face. Well, as pitying as Bobby’s face could yet, anyway.</p><p>“Now, get up and come inside,” Bobby told him. “I got something to tell you.”</p><p>Dean really wasn’t in the mood. Bobby probably wanted to put him to work repairing the wheels on somebody’s buckboard or scrounging the scrap for usable parts. And God forbid he ask Dean to go into town for a supply run; though, Dean guessed, he could buy some more whiskey. Looked like he was out.</p><p>“Can’t you tell me here?” Dean sighed.</p><p>“No,” Bobby shot back, probably trying to be difficult. “Not till you’ve sobered up. There’s coffee and bacon in the kitchen. Come on.” Without waiting, he turned around and left the barn, leaving the door open. The bright sunlight caused a glare as it bounced off the packed dirt.</p><p>Dean stayed still for a long moment, deciding whether or not to follow—even though he knew he didn’t have a choice. Still, he lingered, and picked up the moonshine bottle. There were still some dregs at the bottom. He tried to get them out by shaking the bottle over his mouth, but it was no use. Frowning, he tossed it back onto the hay and picked himself up.</p><p>At first, he was unsteady on his feet, the inside of the barn spinning. Nausea crept up his throat. He shook his head to right himself and followed after Bobby.</p><p>Inside the house, Sam was already sitting at the table, the newspaper spread out in front of him. The skillet of bacon was resting in the middle of the table, the grease already beginning to congeal. Bobby couched in front of the fireplace and took the coffee pot off the hook with a cloth.</p><p>It was toasty inside the small room, and Dean hoped the heat would dry off his clothes.</p><p>He grumbled at Sam, confident that his brother would interpret it as <em>good morning</em>, and pulled out the chair across from him. Sam glanced at him over the top of the paper, his eyes big and imploring, like Dean was a kicked puppy. Dean ignored him in favor of picking up a piece of bacon. He really wasn’t hungry, but he was grateful for the coffee Bobby sat in front of him. If nothing else, it’d get the foot taste out of his mouth. He sipped it tentatively, trying not to burn his tongue. He didn’t know why, but that would probably be the final straw. He’d go right back to bed.</p><p>“So, what’d you wanna tell me?” he asked after swallowing. His voice, at least, sounded slightly less rough.</p><p>The newspaper rustled as Sam folded it up and set it down to listen to the conversation. By the look on his face, Dean was pretty sure Sam already knew what they were about to talk about.</p><p>“Yeah,” Bobby said, sitting down at the head of the table. Without prelude, he said, “You remember Rufus, right? Old contact from back in the day. Used to help me track down witches for your daddy?”</p><p>Dean shrugged, not really knowing where this conversation was going. “Yeah, what about him?” He’d only met Rufus a handful of times when he and Sam stayed with Bobby as kids. Rufus was never a Man of Letters himself, but he was still in the life. He was able to find out anything about anyone. More than once, John relied on his intel to find one of Abaddon’s lackeys.</p><p>“Well, I’ve been having him keep an ear out for things that might help our—” Bobby shared a look with Sam, and Dean was starting to feel left out. “Situation,” he went on. “Looks like there’s renovations going on in one of those big ol’ townhouses in the city, with the deed under the name Charles Novak.”</p><p>Dean stilled, his hand tensing around his mug. Just the sound of Chuck’s name alone set his teeth on edge. He glared quickly at Sam, who met his eyes like a challenge. Dean had <em>told</em> him to leave it alone. Why wouldn’t he just listen?</p><p>After Dean had drunkenly half-told Sam about Cas’ curse, Sam was like a dog with a bone. He didn’t stop until Dean told him and Bobby what had happened. Dean regretted it every day since, because, just like he feared, Sam wanted to <em>help</em>. He practically made it his mission, and Bobby followed right along.</p><p>It was horrible, because, despite his better judgement, it made Dean hope.</p><p>“And?” he managed to grit out angrily.</p><p>“Seems like he’ll be moving in soon,” Bobby told him like this was all brand new information. If Dean had known he was looking in that direction, he could have saved Bobby a lot of trouble.</p><p>“Yeah, I know,” Dean said, not bothering to mind his tone. All the alcohol in his stomach was threatening to expel itself. “He’s gonna move out of the manor after the—” He had to swallow down bile. It burned. Everything burned. Marshaling his weakness, he tried again, “After the wedding.”</p><p>“Not <em>after</em>,” Bobby said. “Before. According to Rufus, he’s holding some function for the publishing firm there the night before the ceremony.”</p><p>Dean didn’t know why they were talking about this. None of it mattered. “So what?”</p><p>“So, Cas might be there,” Sam said, finally breaking his silence. There was force behind his words, like he was pissed that Dean was being stubborn. But Dean <em>wasn’t</em> being stubborn. He was being realistic.</p><p>And, in reality, none of this mattered.</p><p>The flutter in his chest at the idea of Cas being in Boston. The way everything inside of him urged him to crash that party. The memory of the last time he’d gone to a Novak gathering, in secret, and the flicker of Cas’ awed smile—the one he reserved only for Dean—as they danced together. All the words he wished he could say to Cas a cluster in his throat.</p><p>None of it mattered.</p><p>None of it had <em>ever</em> mattered.</p><p>“Who cares?” Dean yelled, pushing his coffee away. He stood up quickly and stepped toward the counter, pulling at his mouth. Rounding back toward the table, he pointed firmly at Sam. “I told you to stay out of it! I <em>told</em> you, Cas is better off—”</p><p>“Yeah, I know you <em>think</em> he’s better off, Dean, but what if he’s not?” Sam argued passionately, and Dean couldn’t hear this. Because he’d give in. He’d listen to Sam and Bobby, and to the hope that had sprung inside of his chest to beat back the misery. He’d let Sam talk him into seeing Cas again, and then it’d all be over. Dean wouldn’t be able to let him go twice.</p><p>But Sam just kept on stating his case like any good lawyer: “If he’s with us, at least he has a chance! Me and Bobby have been looking into this, trying to find a way to save him that doesn’t involve him getting married.”</p><p>“And how’s that going for you?” Dean shot back, already knowing the answer.</p><p>Sam’s eyes flashed like he was caught. He exhaled heavily. “We’ll find something,” he maintained. It wasn’t good enough. “Even if it's something that at least buys us some time at first. It’s worth a shot.”</p><p>“He doesn’t even know anything about any of this. Or about who I really am!” Dean had never told him. He’d always put it off, always thought there’d be more time. Was always just too damn scared that Cas would send him away if he knew the truth. Well, now he was gone, and Dean had run out of time.</p><p>“So, we’ll tell him!” Sam said, and Dean couldn’t help but scoff at the very idea of it. But Sam wasn’t laughing. “Look, I know you think you’re protecting him. Just like you think he <em>might</em> die if he comes with us, but he’ll <em>definitely</em> die if he stays where he is.”</p><p>Dean turned his head, trying not to let Sam’s logic sway him. It made so much sense when he said it like that. Because Sam was right: if Cas stayed in Amherst, if he married Daphne, he’d be dead within a year. He’d never love Daphne, as much as Dean both wished for and dreaded it. He’d never love her.</p><p><em>I will only ever love you</em>, Cas had once told him. The words echoed through Dean’s head—constantly. Cas had meant them.</p><p>Dean knew that. Cas loved him. Hell, it was the last thing Cas ever said to him.</p><p>“And, Dean,” Sam said, tone wearier, “so will you.”</p><p>Dean’s gaze snapped back to his brother. Sam’s face was lined with grief and concern. It made Dean think back to when they were kids, when Sam would wake up crying from a nightmare, or when he’d injured himself after falling off a horse, or when he’d ask why they couldn’t have a home like everyone else. All it ever did was fill Dean with sadness.</p><p>Sammy was hurting. Dean had been the one to hurt him—just like he hurt Cas.</p><p>“I mean… the drinking, the fighting,” Sam continued. “Dean, it’s like you’re trying to get yourself killed.”</p><p>Dean swallowed hard, looking off again in shame. Because Sam was right. Dean didn’t want to die, but he didn’t want to live without Cas. He guessed he was trying to live somewhere on the verge of life and death—like Cas—because it was easier than moving on.</p><p>“So, yeah, if I can find a way to save him, I’m not just gonna sit back and do nothing,” Sam finished, “because it’ll mean saving you, too.”</p><p>Dean let his eyes slip closed. He could feel himself giving in. Maybe it was guilt. Maybe it was exhaustion. Maybe it was because he knew Sam was right. It was worth a try.</p><p>He opened his eyes, gaze falling on Bobby, trying to gauge his thoughts. “What about you? You think there’s a way?”</p><p>Bobby mulled over the question. He sat back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. “Well, it’s like Sam said: maybe there is, maybe there isn’t. But no use in letting Cas die without doing everything we can to stop it.”</p><p>It wasn’t much of an answer. Because, if he did get Cas back, and they couldn’t find a way, Dean wouldn’t be satisfied with his best attempt. He’d hate himself for the rest of his life for failing.</p><p>But he couldn’t stomp down the hope inside of him now. He could feel it snaking around his ribcage like ivy, wreathing his neck in a thistled bow.</p><p>Already, his mind was turning, beginning to form a strategy. “He won’t be going to the event before the wedding,” he said. In his periphery, he saw Sam sit up straighter, more alert. “He’ll stay in Amherst. They won’t risk him running off.” He hated the thought of it, Cas trapped there like a prisoner. But it might actually give them the advantage.</p><p>“The staff won’t be as busy without Chuck there. They never are. When he’s away, they take advantage, so the house’ll be quiet,” Dean explained. “And Chuck might even take some of them to Boston to work in his new place.”</p><p>“Zachariah?” Sam asked.</p><p>Dean’s blood curled at the name. He almost hoped he’d run into Zach so he could kill him. “No, he’ll probably stay at the manor to make sure Cas doesn’t bolt. But I can sneak past him.” Dean still had friends in the manor. Benny, Jo. They’d help. He could get word to them.</p><p>He could pull this off, he thought, with Chuck gone and Sam, Bobby, and his friends helping him. Still, doubt threaded through him, weaving in a cross-stitch with hope. Could he really do it? Get Cas, run away, tell Cas about who he really was, save him? Or would they do all this just to watch Cas die?</p><p>He guessed, if they couldn’t save him, the least he could do was spend Cas’ last few months together. They could try to be happy. Dean didn’t know if that was selfish, but maybe he deserved to be a little selfish.</p><p>He bit down on his jaw, trying to convince himself that everything would be okay.</p><p>“You’re <em>sure</em> you can find something?” he asked Sam, just to be sure.</p><p>Sam looked at him hard for a long time. He said, “No. But trust me, Dean. Trust in all of us.” He gestured to Dean and Bobby as he said it.</p><p>And Dean did trust him. If there was a way to save Cas, Sam would find it.</p><p>But first, Dean would have to save him. He would. He’d get Cas back. He’d bring him home.</p><p>“Okay,” he said, pacing back to the table. He could feel himself moving with more intent. His shoulders were squared with determination, carrying himself like a soldier. Dean would be a soldier one last time, and he’d fight for Cas.</p><p>He sat back down and looked at Sam and Bobby in turn.</p><p>“Let’s come up with a plan.”</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>October 1868</strong>
</p><p>Castiel had come to a decision: he couldn’t do this.</p><p>Any of it.</p><p>Disenchantment for life and all it entailed hollowed him to his core. He no longer went to the garden waiting for Dean. He no longer sat at his piano, expecting Dean to find him. Time moved sluggishly around him, packed in and stifling, all its seconds and hours and years stretching out before him like an iron chain. It ended in shackles around his wrists.</p><p>He would not do it. He would not let it drag him down to the murky depths. Already, he felt himself floating. He walked through the world as if he were under water. No. Drowning was too slow a death. He’d rather it be quick.</p><p>If he could not have love or freedom, he would have peace.</p><p>So, he decided to make plans. It was a strange thing, how calm he felt once he made the decision. It filled him with determination where there was once only disillusion. He had a purpose now. Already, he felt more in charge of his own destiny.</p><p>That morning, he and Daphne went to his father’s attorney in town to discuss their prenuptial arrangements. The meeting had been scheduled weeks ago, before Castiel had made his decision, and it only furthered his belief that he was on the right path.</p><p>For what felt like hours, he and Daphne sat in the attorney’s posh office in his elaborate home near the park. He droned on about the laws put in place that guaranteed a married woman the right to inherit her husband’s money and property in the event of his death. That, upon their union, the two of them would be seen as one person in the eyes of the state and their assets would be joined. However, because Castiel’s inheritance and property were so large, a prenuptial would have to be signed to ensure all his assets would go to Daphne, as opposed to their first-born son, in the event of his untimely passing.</p><p>Daphne sat in the leather chair beside Castiel, quiet and demure, nodding and listening. Talk of money and death didn’t seem to sit well with her. Castiel would have been uncomfortable himself if he hadn’t been impatiently waiting for the lawyer to stop talking so he could speak.</p><p>“Now, if you don’t have any questions,” the attorney said as he reached over his desk to pass the contract and a pen to Castiel, “you may both sign where indicated.”</p><p>Castiel didn’t reach for the offered items. “I do have questions,” he said.</p><p>The lawyer blinked, taking it in stride. Next to him, he felt Daphne look at him questioningly. He didn’t look back. In fact, he couldn’t look at her all morning. Perhaps, if he did, he’d lose his will to follow through on his plan.</p><p>All he could do was ensure she was taken care of when he was gone. If nothing else, he owed her that.</p><p>“Of course,” the attorney said, gesturing at him to begin.</p><p>“This will include <em>all</em> my assets? The house, the funds in my bank account, my eventual inheritance after my father’s passing?” Castiel double-checked.</p><p>“Yes,” the lawyer answered patiently.</p><p>Castiel nodded. “Good. I’d like this contract to take effect prior to the wedding.”</p><p>Surprised, the lawyer jerked his head back. Daphne, too, let out a shocked sound. Her hand touched Castiel’s arm. “Castiel?” He hardly felt her hand. He kept staring forward.</p><p>“Well,” the lawyer said, seeming to think, “how soon are you hoping for?”</p><p>“Immediately.”</p><p>Sputtering slightly, the attorney shifted in his chair and said, “It’s… irregular—”</p><p>Castiel wasn’t asking whether or not it was common. He couldn’t care less. “But it’s possible?”</p><p>“Well…” The lawyer looked between them in question. “With the wedding date less than a month away, I don’t see why it would be an issue. But nor do I see why it’s necessary. This is only in the event of your death, Mr. Novak. And you’re a young… um, <em>healthy</em> man.”</p><p><em>Healthy</em>, as if Castiel hadn’t seen the way his frame had thinned and his skin had paled. <em>Healthy</em>, as if his father hadn’t called a physician to the house twice already, only for the doctor to say there was nothing physically wrong with Castiel. <em>Healthy</em>, as if he’d been able to sleep, been able to eat without the food tasting like ash, been able to feel anything at all since Dean abandoned him.</p><p>“Of course,” Castiel said. “But I’d like to do it, anyway. Just in case.”</p><p>“If you insist,” the lawyer said, his eyes moving to the contract. “I’m happy to revise this to make it effective immediately.”</p><p>That was good. It meant Daphne would be cared for. But Castiel wasn’t waiting for revisions, and he wasn’t coming back another day to sign them. If he did, he risked losing his nerve.</p><p>He settled into his chair. “Now.”</p><p>The lawyer blinked.</p><p>Castiel half-glanced toward Daphne. “We can wait.”</p><p>He felt Daphne looking at him suspiciously. He didn’t look back. The lawyer sighed and picked up his pen.</p><p>A half hour later, after the agreement had been revised and signed, Castiel and Daphne stood in the drive outside the attorney’s home, waiting for their carriages to be pulled around. The whole time, Daphne stood beside him, her coat pulled tightly around her to ward off the autumn chill. The earth smelled of decay as the brown leaves tumbled to the ground to rot.</p><p>Daphne didn’t say anything for a long time, even though Castiel assumed she wanted to. He wasn’t surprised when she turned toward him and asked, “Castiel? Are you feeling alright?”</p><p>He kept his eyes forward to the park across the street. Men and women strolled along the paths. “Yes.”</p><p>“You just look…” She paused, clearly choosing her words. Castiel looked at her out of the corners of his eyes. It was a mistake. She appeared concerned. More than that; she looked <em>frightened</em>.</p><p>Why was she frightened? He’d made sure she’d have money and a place to live, should she choose to move into the manor. What more could she need?</p><p>“It’s just—inside,” Daphne said. “You… worried me.”</p><p>Castiel’s brows knitted together. His chest constricted just ever so slightly. It was strange. He hadn’t felt anything at all in his breastbone in weeks. “Worried?” he asked, turning his face to her and squinting in confusion.</p><p>“Of course!” She fully oriented herself toward him and reached down to grasp his hand, bringing their conjoined hands up. “You’d tell me if you were ill, wouldn’t you? Please, tell me you aren’t.”</p><p>There was something in her green eyes—something beyond fear. Castiel had only seen it once before. It had been in another set of green eyes.</p><p>She loved him.</p><p>Remorse spread through him. He’d been so blind. He recalled, months ago, when Balthazar hadn’t wanted to leave him, and Castiel pushed him out. Daphne didn’t want Castiel to leave her either—like Dean had left him.</p><p>Like Dean had left him when he promised he wouldn’t. It had been a lie. Maybe all of it was a lie, everything Dean ever promised him.</p><p>Castiel hadn’t wanted to lie to Daphne. He wanted his promises to mean something. How could they if he was planning on leaving her?</p><p>He turned to face her and lifted her other hand in his. “I’m not sick,” he said, and she let out a relieved breath. “I apologize. I… never meant to concern you.”</p><p>A crunch of wheels sounded on the cobblestones as Daphne’s carriage approached. She ignored it, squeezing his hands. “Don’t be silly. I’m just happy you’re okay.”</p><p>He couldn’t go through with his plan. Something like relief washed over him. For all his determination and will, perhaps he’d been looking for a reason to stop him. Perhaps, in the deepest part of his heart that still thrashed under the dying throes of hope, he’d wanted that reason to be Dean’s return.</p><p>The carriage came to a stop next to them. Castiel opened the door for her and helped her inside. When the door was closed, she poked her head out the window, a gentle smile on her face. “Castiel?” she said. “Thank you—for making sure I’m taken care of. You’ll make a wonderful husband. I’m very lucky.”</p><p>Castiel was stunned. He heard himself say, “So am I.” The words rang hollow, no matter how much he wished he meant them. She seemed to believe it though. She smiled again, and the carriage set off down the drive. Castiel watched it retreat, his guilt trailing after it.</p><p>In his own carriage on the way back to the manor, Castiel spent the journey sightlessly looking out the window. Daphne’s words, and the worry on her face, played over in his mind.</p><p>She cared for him. In a way, he cared for her. It wasn’t love on his part, but he wondered if that mattered anymore. Maybe there was a way to make it work. If nothing else, maybe he could be content.</p><p>He wondered if Dean was content—or if he missed Castiel. If he thought about him at all. Maybe Dean had moved on from him. It seemed likely.</p><p>A new sense of determination filled Castiel now.</p><p>He would move on, too.</p><p>He would forget Dean. Before Dean barreled into his life, before Castiel got a taste of what life could be like outside the walls of the manor, he’d be perfectly numb to any emotion, positive or negative, about his future. Surely, contentedness was a step up from that. It was certainly better than the empty melancholy he felt at every waking moment now.</p><p>There must have been a way to get back to that—to who he was before Dean. Maybe purging his life of every memory of Dean would do that.</p><p>With that thought spurring him, he jumped out of the carriage the second it stopped in front of the manor’s main doors. Zachariah was waiting there, ready to open the door for him.</p><p>“Castiel, how did it go at the—”</p><p>Castiel blew past him into the house. Over his shoulder, he asked, “Is there a fire going in my room?”</p><p>“Um,” Zachariah sputtered, badly hiding his offense. “Yes.”</p><p>Castiel bound up the stairs and down the hall toward his room. He shut the door behind him, his eyes moving to the crackling fire in the hearth. Without pausing, he went to his nightstand and pulled open the drawers. He took out his photo albums and brought them to the fireplace.</p><p>Quickly, he flipped through the pages, taking out any photograph that bore Dean’s image.</p><p>The portrait Castiel had taken of Dean in front of the carriage house that Dean had moaned and groaned about sitting for—tossed in the flames.</p><p>The one of Dean in his robe sitting on Castiel’s bed—burned.</p><p>That reminded Castiel. He went to his dresser and pulled out the robe. The silk caught the flames immediately, giving off a sharp scent as it turned to brittle ash.</p><p>He moved to the next album, finding the first picture he took of Dean in the winter before last. Dean was only a small, over-exposed speck among the gardens and trees. Castiel burned it, anyway. It bubbled and curled as it disintegrated.</p><p>He kept going, destroying any photograph he came across that so much as reminded him of Dean. With each pop of the fire, with each licking flame that grew higher, Castiel felt better and better.</p><p>He could do this. He could move on. Dean had left him, and Castiel would prove that Dean was nothing to him. Just a mild, fleeting disturbance in a charmed life. That was all.</p><p>When he picked up the third album, something fell out of the back.</p><p>Castiel froze, looking down at the stuffed envelope on the floor. He hadn’t realized which album he’d picked up. It was his mother’s, the one in which he’d hidden all the letters Dean had written to him while he was visiting Sam.</p><p>It was then that Castiel realized, despite the flames on his face, there was no warmth to be found in him. Dark masses swarmed in the corners of his vision. Ice touched the back of his neck.</p><p>With shaking fingers, he picked up the envelope and dug inside, pulling out Dean’s military portrait. Castiel’s chest hollowed out in a breath. Dean looked so handsome there.</p><p>Shifting the items into one hand, Castiel reached into his collar and pulled out the chain around his neck. Dean’s mother’s ring hung from it. The ring Dean had given him as a promise. A promise that they’d never be without each other.</p><p>For a blinding moment, Castiel wanted to rip it from his neck and toss it into the fire to watch it melt. He couldn’t. It was all he had left of Dean. That, his letters, and one remaining photograph.</p><p>What had he done?</p><p>He quickly tore his eyes to the fire, hoping there was something to salvage. There wasn’t. These items were all that remained.</p><p>Castiel wouldn’t forget Dean. He’d rather have the pain.</p><p>Gingerly, he pulled the chain over his head and dropped it into the envelope. If these were his last remnants of Dean, they had to be kept safe. Losing them would be agony.</p><p>He opened up the photo album and flipped through the pages until he found the portrait he’d taken for his graduation. Deciding it was good enough, he split open the binding holding the portrait in, the glue snapping as it separated. Castiel carefully picked up the military portrait and put it behind his own. It would be safe there, and Castiel would always know where it was hidden.</p><p>In some way, at least, he and Dean would be together.</p><p>Closing the album, Castiel sat down on the floor in front of the fire, watching the flames dance.</p><p>The thought returned to him, less like a decision this time; more like a certainty.</p><p>He couldn’t do this.</p><p>But what choice did he have?</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>November 1868</strong>
</p><p>It had taken Dean and Sam two days to ride from Boston to Amherst. Old habits their father had taught them reared their heads: don’t leave a paper trail by taking a train or coach, rent horses under aliases, and stay off the roads while traveling.</p><p>Old habits were good. They’d need them on the way to California, especially because they had no choice but to take the train for the first leg of their journey. They’d need to get out of Amherst fast.</p><p>The brothers set up camp in the hills outside of town, and Sam stayed behind to guard their belongings while Dean slipped into the nighttime silent streets of Amherst. It took everything in him to not change course and head straight for the manor. But he told himself to be patient. They’d come up with a plan for a reason. No use in gambling on Cas’ life by rushing into things—or at least, that’s what Sam reminded him time and time again on their journey.</p><p>Dean often wanted to remind him that they were already gambling with Cas’ life. It’d been weeks, and they still hadn’t found anything that would pull Cas fully into life. At one point, Sam thought he found a spell that’s intended purpose was healing the sick on the brink of death, but it turned out to have a success rate of zero. Bobby also broke out the old Men of Letters tomes, but they didn’t have any luck.</p><p>The only thing that would really help them was necromancy, which—so they’d thought before they found out about Abaddon’s spell to raise Cas—hadn’t been performed in two hundred years, after the Men of Letters outlawed it. It was complicated magic, one they couldn’t do without a witch experienced in the spellwork, but Dean didn’t know if there were any such thing anymore. In any case, necromancy was a last-ditch, desperate effort.</p><p>Dean tried to remind himself that they weren’t desperate yet. They still had a little under a year for that. Now, there was time. But they couldn’t wait until they had something to save Cas, because the wedding was the day after tomorrow. It was time to leave.</p><p>Dean stood on a dirt road in town lined with shops and tenement houses. Flickering streetlamps winked at him as they hung from the sides of the clapboard buildings. Above, the barest sliver was missing from the waxing full moon.</p><p>He had only visited Benny’s home once in all his time in Amherst, and it was for a card game. Still, he remembered Benny’s building all the same: a narrow, wooden structure shoved between two others just like it. The kitchen inside was tiny, nothing like the grand mansion Benny worked in.</p><p>Before Dean knocked on the door, he peered over his shoulder, just to make certain no one was watching him. There was no way anyone from the manor—Chuck or Zach—knew Dean was back in town, but simply being in Amherst made Dean’s skin crawl and bump with the paranoid sensation of being watched.</p><p>He knocked again, hoping to rouse Benny inside the house. He breathed a sigh of relief when he heard footfalls from inside. The door opened just a crack at first, and Benny’s tired eyes glared at him suspiciously before the man realized who he was looking at.</p><p>Dean tried to muster a smile. It was easier to do than he’d anticipated. His chest cavity sunk in a feeling of safety at the sight of a friend. “Hey, Benny.”</p><p>“Dean?” Benny balked, opening the door wider. “Ain’t you a sight for sore eyes.”</p><p>Dean nodded in return, some of his paranoia returning. He quickly cast a look over his shoulder. “Yeah, you mind if we do this inside?”</p><p>“Of course, of course. C’mon in,” Benny said hurriedly, stepping to the side of the shadowy threshold to let Dean through. He locked the door behind them.</p><p>“Benny?” a voice came from the back of the thin hall, catching both Dean and Benny’s attention. The shadow of a woman poked her head out of the bedroom door. It was too dark for her to make out Dean’s features; Dean knew that because he could hardly see Benny standing a foot away.</p><p>“S’alright, Andrea. It’s Dean Wesson. You remember him?” Benny asked.</p><p>“Of course,” Andrea said before nodding at Dean in greeting. “Dean.”</p><p>“Hey, Andrea. Good to see you,” he told Benny’s wife, hoping he didn’t sound too antsy.</p><p>Benny must have noticed his hurry. He waved a hand toward Andrea and told her quietly. “You go on back to bed, darling.”</p><p>Andrea disappeared into the room, the door clicking closed behind her. Benny turned his focus back on Dean. He kept his voice low, as if someone, somehow, might overhear them. “Well, not that I ain’t happy to see you, but what are you doing here? Rumor has it, you made off with five grand of Novak’s bankroll.”</p><p>Dean didn’t know if he was more annoyed, angry, or dejected. “You don’t believe that?”</p><p>Benny shook his head. “No, I don’t. Even if I did, I know you’d take Cas with you.”</p><p>Dean withered, somber from hearing Cas’ name. “Does he believe it?”</p><p>He’d hoped for a no, but Benny studied him far too long for that to be the answer. Dean’s eyes had adjusted to the dark enough to see Benny’s gaze roaming his face, but even if they hadn’t, the physical weight of Benny’s stare was enough.</p><p>Crossing his arms, Benny said, “I don’t know what he thinks. Since you left, he’s been even moodier than usual—which I didn’t think was possible. Won’t talk to me or Jo. I haven’t seen those two friends of his ‘round in a while, either.”</p><p>Dean hated the thought of Cas in pain—of him being the reason for it. He drew in a steadying breath, hoping Cas didn’t hate him enough to reject him. Or maybe Cas didn’t hate him at all. Maybe he felt nothing for Dean now. That’d be worse somehow. It’d mean he gave up on them. On everything.</p><p>“I’m guessing he’s the reason you’re here?” Benny prompted, dipping his head to catch Dean’s eyes.</p><p>Lifting his gaze, Dean nodded. “Yeah. Listen, I know Chuck’s leaving for Boston tomorrow morning. My guess is, Cas is staying?”</p><p>Benny nodded. “Yeah. How d’you know that?” Dean was relieved to have confirmation.</p><p>“Never mind that,” Dean said. “Point is, I’m going back to the manor tomorrow night to get Cas. Me and him are skipping town.”</p><p>“Okay,” Benny said, taking it in stride. “What do you need from me?”</p><p>Dean was so relieved that Benny would help, he could have hugged him. Instead, he said, “I need you to get him a message. Tell him I’m coming.”</p><p>Benny nodded, eyes moving in thought. “Alright… I got a better idea.” He moved out of Dean’s space, heading for a hallway table a few paces away. There was a candle on top. Benny opened the drawer and pulled out a matchbook. The orange light lit up the blue darkness with a hiss of a struck match. “Come on over here,” Benny beckoned as he pulled out a sheaf of paper and a pencil.</p><p>“Write him a note. I’ll put it with his breakfast tray tomorrow, have Jo deliver it. This way, he’ll know it’s really from you.”</p><p>“Yeah, good idea,” Dean said, wondering why he hadn’t come up with it. He leaned over, picking up the pencil. Benny stepped away, muttering something about giving Dean privacy.</p><p>Dean considered what to say. There was so much.</p><p>
  <em>I love you. I’m sorry. This is who I really am. Please accept me. I’ll help you. You don’t have to die. You don’t have to throw your life away. We can figure it out together.</em>
</p><p>He figured there was time for all that later.</p><p>He set the tip of the pencil to the paper and started writing.</p><p>
  <em>Mr. Novak,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I’m not letting you go through with this. I’m coming back, and I’m coming for you. After Chuck leaves for Boston, be ready. Pack light. We’re leaving, you and me. We’re gonna start over. I’m sorry I left. I shouldn’t have let Zach push me out like that. I’ll explain everything. Then, how about I spend the rest of our lives making it up to you?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Midnight. Be ready. A while ago, you said you’d wait for me until I caught up. Wait just a little bit longer. I’m on my way.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Forever yours,<br/>
</em>
  <em>Mr. Wesson</em>
</p><p>He stood up straight and folded the note. Holding it out for Benny, he suddenly felt like he was trusting him with a lot more than a piece of paper.</p><p>Benny took it gingerly and placed it in his pocket. “I’ll be sure he gets that.”</p><p>Dean <em>did</em> trust him. He just wished there was a way to thank him. Letting out a wet sound into the gloom, he said, “Benny, I don’t know what I’d do without you and Jo.” He wished he could thank her, too. The two of them had done so much for him and Cas already, and now he was asking for more. But he had nowhere else to turn. And, he realized with a bittersweet twang in his heart, for the first time, he had real friends. “Thank her for me. And thank <em>you</em>.”</p><p>Benny gave him a weak smile, absorbing all Dean had said. “Good luck, brother.”</p><p>The two embraced, Benny clapping Dean on the back firmly. Dean sunk into the hug, feeling it buoy his spirits. With Benny and Jo, he might actually be able to pull this off.</p><p>When the hug broke, Benny’s eyes were misty in the low light. He said, “See you ‘round, Dean.”</p><p>Dean nodded and smiled sadly, because they both knew that wasn’t true. “Yeah.”</p><p>With that, Dean headed for the door and moved back into the early November night.</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p> </p><p>Castiel stared at the perfect morning sunlight streaming through the windows of the music room—the warmth it spread in patches over the carpet, the twinkling promise of a bright new day. All he saw was the dust particles swirling inside it. They winked and disappeared before slowly settling atop the piano. Castiel hadn’t touched the instrument in weeks. What did it matter if it became laden with dust?</p><p>“Okay, so you’re all set, right? You don’t need anything from me?” his father asked. He was standing on the other side of the table, his hands on his hips, his coat already adorned. Castiel turned his head toward him from his place on the couch.</p><p>He didn’t quite understand what his father was asking him. All the preparations for the wedding tomorrow were made. The only thing he could really ask was to call off the ceremony, but he didn’t dare. Even now.</p><p><em>Especially</em> now.</p><p>There was absolutely nothing left for him to cling to. His prospects for his life had vanished like mist over the water, and whatever mangled hope he still possessed that Dean would return to him sank lifelessly into the depths. It was the day before his wedding. If Dean were coming for him, he would have done it by now.</p><p>Castiel had stopped waiting. He knew he was alone.</p><p>“Other than an explanation as to why I’m not leaving for Boston with you?” Castiel prompted, even though he already knew the answer. Chuck was hosting a dinner that night with all the firm’s associates at his newly renovated home in the city. Castiel, however, would not be in attendance. His father didn’t say it forthright, but he suspected his wayward son would make one last dash to freedom.</p><p>It was almost laughable. Where on earth would Castiel go?</p><p>Still, he wasn’t trusted. He would remain in the manor tonight, and then return to it with his new bride. His father would stay in Boston permanently. The moment Chuck got into his carriage and passed through the gates, Castiel would be the master of the household.</p><p>Castiel wondered if he would viscerally feel the moment the gates closed, locking him in forever. Desperation pressed onto him like a new layer of skin, urging him to stall his father.</p><p>Chuck waved his hand, letting out a few noncommittal noises. “C’mon, Castiel. We talked about this. It’s better if you stay here—Relax. Get some sleep before the big day, alright? Everyone will understand.”</p><p>Castiel would have suppressed an eye roll if anything at all mattered.</p><p>“You’ll come to Boston in the morning and there’ll be plenty of time before the ceremony. Don’t worry! Zachariah will be with you the entire way to make sure nothing goes wrong.”</p><p>Castiel wasn’t worried. He was dreading it. All of it. Traveling with Zachariah, getting married, the rest of his life. The closer the seconds ticked toward the wedding, the more Castiel wondered why he was going through with it.</p><p>Duty? Responsibility?</p><p>Dean once told him that he also had a responsibility to himself.</p><p>For so long, Castiel was certain his life belonged to someone else. What if it didn’t have to?</p><p>He supposed such questions came too late.</p><p>There was a knock at the door, and Zachariah came through, carrying a breakfast tray between his hands. He set it down on the table in front of Castiel. “Here we are. Apologies for the delay. It would seem Mr. Lafitte’s come down with a cold. He had to return home for the day.”</p><p>Castiel was only half listening. He barely glanced toward the tray of eggs, toast, and coffee. The smell of it alone made his stomach turn, and he couldn’t possibly think about stomaching food. He was exhausted, anyway. He’d rather spend the day unconscious.</p><p>“I’m not hungry.”</p><p>“Pre-marital nerves?” Chuck joked. Castiel didn’t laugh. He turned back to the dust in the sunbeams.</p><p>Zachariah cleared his throat into the silence and turned to Chuck. “Sir, your luggage is already loaded in the carriage. The driver is waiting for you outside the front door.”</p><p>Chuck nodded. “Thanks.” He blew out his cheeks audibly and glanced around. “Well, I’ll be off then.”</p><p>Castiel wasn’t paying attention. The words passed through one ear and out the other.</p><p>“See you both at the church,” Chuck continued off Castiel’s silence. “And cheer up, Castiel! Tomorrow’s the first day of the rest of your life.” With that, he left the room. Zachariah followed after him.</p><p>The gaping void in Castiel’s chest echoed with his father’s parting words.</p><p><em>The first day of the rest of your life</em>.</p><p>It felt like his end.</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p> </p><p>This was a beginning. Dean knew it was.</p><p>All day, he’d been a tightly wound bundle of nerves. A thousand questions played through his mind, all of them going straight to the worst-case scenario: he wouldn’t be able to get into the manor; or he would but he wouldn’t be able to get Cas out; they’d be caught on the way back into town; they’d get held up and miss the train.</p><p>Luckily, he had Sam there to talk him down. Dean hadn’t even had to say anything most of the time. Sam would just glance at him, give his earnest puppy-dog eyes, and say, “Dean, it’s gonna be fine.”</p><p>And Dean believed him. He had to. Underneath all those nerves was an electric current of hope. It raised Dean’s spirits, told him that he was going to see Cas again, that they were going to escape together. They’d find a way to keep Cas alive. This was their second chance.</p><p>They’d have a life together.</p><p>That hope carried him to well after sundown. He and Sam had already gone into town to buy the train tickets. There was a 1 AM train to New York. That would give him plenty of time to get Cas at midnight and get to the station. From New York, they could go anywhere. Sam had asked about the train schedules while they were at the depot, and he was working on coming up with the best, most erratic route to throw anyone looking for them off their scent.</p><p>Dean was glad Sam was there to think clearly.</p><p>“You all set?” Sam asked, stomping the dying embers of their campfire with his boot. The red glow was snuffed out, pulling the night in closer. Above, the sky was a clear blanket of stars. The full moon shone its pale face down on the earth.</p><p>“Yeah, think so,” Dean said as he finished putting his saddle on his horse. He’d ride toward the manor and rein his horse to a tree in the forest about a mile away from the house. The rest would be on foot.</p><p>“And you’re sure you don’t want me to go with you?” Sam offered for the hundredth time.</p><p>Dean turned to him. Now that his hands were idle, his nerves were returning as a tickle in his gut. “No, Sammy, I’m good. It’ll be hard enough to get me and Cas out unseen. Three people’s too many,” he reasoned. “Plus, I know how to sneak into the house. I’ll be in and out. You just go to the railroad depot and get our luggage on the train.” He nodded in the direction of their bags. It wasn’t much. It never had been. But they had each other, and soon they’d have Cas, and that was more than enough for Dean. “Me and Cas’ll meet you there.”</p><p>Sam nodded, accepting the plan. “Okay.” He shuffled slightly, putting his hands into his pockets to stave off the chill in the air. “I’m excited to finally meet him.”</p><p>Just like Sam had stomped out the fire, so did his words stomp out any fear Dean had about what he was about to do. A grin bloomed on his face. “You’re gonna love ‘im,” he said. He must have said it a thousand times, and every time he became more certain. He guarded that knowledge inside his heart, keeping it close. He couldn’t wait for Sam and Cas to meet.</p><p>“Yeah, I’m sure I will,” Sam told him. Whether he believed it or not, Dean wasn’t sure, but it made Dean feel better anyway.</p><p>Dean reminded himself this was their second chance. They could start again, do it right this time.</p><p>And he wasn’t gonna let anyone take that from him.</p><p>With that thought in mind, he went to his duffle bag on the grass and pulled out his six-shooter. He made sure it was loaded before shoving it into his waistband.</p><p>“Okay,” Dean said, sniffing in the autumn air, and that was that. He got astride his horse and pulled on the reins to steady her. Sam drifted closer, coming up to Dean’s side. Dean glanced down at him. For the briefest moment, fear struck his center. It told him not to leave Sam, after all. But he quickly shoved it to the side. He said, “See you at the station.”</p><p>“Good luck,” Sam said.</p><p>Dean set his mount into motion, riding toward Cas.</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p> </p><p>Castiel didn’t know how long he’d been sitting there—in his bedroom, the mattress dipping under him and his feet planted on the floor. Though, in truth, they didn’t feel planted. His grip on the world felt tenuous, as if he were about to fade away into the shadows bleeding out from the corners of the room, unlit by the flames hissing in the fireplace.</p><p>The day had been uneventful after his father departed. The tailor had come back to drop off the finished suit. Castiel had been forced to try it on one more time to everyone’s satisfaction. The suit hung from a hanger off the top of the full-length mirror, lording over the room like a phantom hovering midair, sucking all the warmth from Castiel’s bones.</p><p>Outside, the night had grown deep and dark, and the forlorn howl of wolves echoed from the far away mountain. He recalled refusing dinner, having no appetite for food. He recalled sunset, the milky light of the sun drifting away across the floorboards. He recalled staring at the suit and hoping, beyond hope, that there would be a knock at his balcony doors, and Dean would stride in and take him away forever.</p><p>But he didn’t, and he wouldn’t. The last wisps of faith that Castiel hadn’t even known were inside of him dissipated. Dean was gone.</p><p>That was all.</p><p>Castiel blinked back into reality. He swiveled around on his place at the end of the bed to look at the clock on his nightstand. 11:55 PM. He watched the seconds hand tick by.</p><p>11:55 and 53 seconds… 54… 55… 56…</p><p>Ripping his eyes away, he looked down at his hands. The sinew and tendons shifted under his white knuckles as he gripped his knees. Inside, his lungs expanded sluggishly, each breath counting out the time he had left until the carriage took him off to Boston in the morning.</p><p>There must have been a way out.</p><p>He tilted his chin upward, gaze resting on the canopy above. Dean always hated that canopy. Castiel imagined ripping it down and fashioning the curtains into a rope. His eyes snagged on the rafter just over the foot of the bed.</p><p>It would be the easiest way out. After all, what did he have left in this life that was truly his own? Even his dreams in the night had been stolen, faded to nothing. Even there, he no longer saw Dean’s face.</p><p>There was a quick knock at the door, shaking Castiel out of his thoughts. Before he could tell the intruder to leave him alone, the door swung open. “Castiel? I thought I’d find you still awake. You should be sleeping,” Zachariah said with the air of a scolding mother as he stepped into the room.</p><p>It was infuriating. “Don’t enter until I call for you,” he demanded, now knowing full well that he’d lost his status the moment his father left for Boston that morning. It seemed he was not the master of the house, after all; he was a prisoner. Zachariah was his jailer.</p><p>Zachariah visibly held back an eye roll and ignored the comment. “Anyway, I came for this,” he said, turning toward the suit. “I’m going to get up early in the morning to make sure it’s pressed and crisp.”</p><p>It seemed like a flimsy excuse. The suit was already pressed to perfection. Zachariah had likely barged in to keep an eye on Castiel.</p><p>He fondled the sleeves as though inspecting them and mused, “No, sir, there’s not going to be a wrinkle on you.”</p><p>Castiel couldn’t stand it—his perfect suit at his perfect wedding with his perfect bride and perfect life.</p><p>“Why are you doing this?” He couldn’t hold it in anymore. He didn’t understand it, why Zachariah and his father were so hell-bent on his misery.</p><p>Zachariah swiveled around, fingers dropping from the suit. “Pressing your suit? Well, you want to look good at your wedding, don’t you?”</p><p>Castiel casted a heated glare toward him. If not for Castiel’s happiness, Zachariah must have known he was putting an innocent girl in the middle of this scheme. “You’re ruining her life. Daphne.”</p><p>The butler dropped his shoulders in a loud sigh and wheeled around fully.</p><p>Castiel didn’t let it hinder him. “You’re trapping her into an escapable life, a <em>loveless</em> life. She’ll be a prisoner as much as I am.”</p><p>“A prisoner?” Zachariah balked, laughing. He strode closer to the bed, all the while taking an exaggerated look at their surroundings. “A cozy bed? Gilded halls? Pretty nice jail cell, if you ask me.”</p><p>Castiel scoffed, tearing his eyes away.</p><p>“But, no, Castiel, <em>I’m</em> not trapping her in anything—and neither is your father. You are.”</p><p>Furious and indignant, Castiel returned his gaze, but he couldn’t hold it for long, especially when Zachariah continued speaking: “If only you gave her a chance, you’d love her. Everyone else can see it! You two are made for each other.”</p><p>Something about the words rang true inside of Castiel. Daphne was a lovely girl, and Castiel was certain he could feel some fondness for her if things were different. If <em>he</em> were different.</p><p>If he didn’t already belong to another.</p><p>“You’re wrong,” he said, and he was speaking to Zachariah, but the age-old voice in the back of his head repeated the words back to him. <em>You’re wrong. Everything about you is wrong.</em></p><p>He’d thought, for a brief and shining moment, that he’d found someone who understood him, who fixed Castiel, the wretched thing he was. Someone who loved him, despite the cracks in his soul. Dean Wesson had filled each fracture with liquid gold, piecing him back together. But now, without him, Castiel was shattered. Broken. Wrong.</p><p>And Dean had known that. So, he left.</p><p>“Why? Because you’re still hung up on Dean Wesson?” Zachariah said, and the name spoken aloud after so long both filled Castiel up and emptied him out. “I told you, he left. He’s not the man you thought he was.” Castiel didn’t want to believe it, even now. Even after all this time. He knew Dean. He <em>knew</em> him. “Trust me, you’re better off.”</p><p>Castiel bit down on his jaw, keeping his face downcast. His eyes slipped closed. He couldn’t quite picture the color of Dean’s eyes anymore.</p><p>Zachariah sighed again, but it sounded more pitying than weary. He placed his hand on Castiel’s shoulder, and Castiel was too tired to do anything but allow it. “Why am I doing this?” he repeated the original question. “Would you believe me if I said it was in your best interest?”</p><p>Castiel’s eyes flew open.</p><p>
  <em>His best interest.</em>
</p><p>No one ever bothered to ask him what he thought was in his best interest for his own life. Zachariah, Chuck, they were both only doing what was best for them.</p><p>He smacked Zachariah’s arm away. “No.”</p><p>Zachariah held up his hands in surrender. “Have it your way,” he said, frustration licking his tone despite the sneering smile on his face. He walked backward toward the door. “Get some sleep, Castiel. Big day tomorrow.”</p><p>Castiel watched the door close firmly. There was no clicking of a lock, no turning of the key jutting out from the handle, but there was a finality to it. He was imprisoned there, awaiting his inevitable fate. There was no hope to cling to, no prayer to save him, not even a hand to comfort him.</p><p>All he felt was a dragging of frigid, invisible fingertips on the back of his neck. They tickled at the shorthairs, the pressure of them becoming firmer. They wrapped around his neck, not quite squeezing, not yet throttling. All they did was hover.</p><p>His eyes moved to the corner of the room, where the suit still hung. If Zachariah truly had come for that purpose, he must have forgotten it; but Castiel didn’t care, and he certainly didn’t want to call Zachariah back in.</p><p>He kept his gaze fixed on it until a vignette began creeping along the edges of his vision. In his peripheries, he thought he saw a mass of shadow forming in the dancing firelight.</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p> </p><p>The silent forest was shaken with the distant howl of wolves. Dean paid them no mind, instead keeping his focus on navigating the path of fallen leaves along the wire fence that marked the back end of the Novaks’ property. The flickering light of his lantern casted dancing shadows between the tree trunks.</p><p>Before long, he came upon the part of the fence that had been knocked over by an animal, and he thanked himself for having never repaired it. He stepped over it and kept walking until he heard the familiar sound of the trickling stream. It led him to the garden, which was vacant but for a hooting owl in one of the branches above.</p><p>Dean paused momentarily to shine his light around, knowing it would be the last time he’d see the place. The grass had grown tall, most of it poking out from beneath the leaves that autumn had littered on the ground, and weeds had overrun the flowerbeds. He wondered how many times Cas had come out there while Dean was gone, or if he let the garden fall to disuse. It certainly looked like the latter.</p><p>Not that Dean blamed him. Cas probably spent the last five months hating Dean more than Dean hated himself. Dean only hoped Cas would forgive him before they reached the west coast.</p><p>He left the garden behind and headed down the familiar path toward the manor. When he reached the cemetery, with its iron gates guarding the still and quiet shadows of the tombstones, Dean turned his lantern off. He was close enough to the tree line that someone could spot the light. He set the lantern next to the cemetery’s gate for safekeeping, where he could retrieve it again once he had Cas.</p><p>Dean found his way to the edge of the forest by the silver light of the moon bleeding through the spindly bare branches of the canopy. He concealed himself behind a tree trunk and took a survey of the grounds. Everything remained still, save for the flowers bending back and forth in the slight breeze. Not a sound came from the house, and every window inside was dark but for one.</p><p>The firelight flickered in Cas’ bedroom windows—a beacon to guide Dean forward.</p><p>Following it, he crept out of the trees, staying low, and moved to the base of the oak tree Cas used to hide beneath. He crouched inside the gnarled roots and peered around again. So far, he’d been able to use darkness as a cover, but the stretch between the oak tree and the manor was illuminated by the full moon. He’d be out in the open.</p><p>He peered over at the carriage house, and he wondered if anyone was sleeping in the apartment above. The grounds looked cared for, which probably shouldn’t have surprised him as much as it did. Sullenly, he wondered what the new groundskeeper was like.</p><p>Shaking that thought away, he refocused on Cas’ window. He couldn’t see Cas moving around inside, but the light was enough for Dean. Cas would be there—waiting for him.</p><p>Dean pulled his gun out of his waistband and held it at the ready, just in case someone did spot him.</p><p>His heart was pumping loudly in his ears, and he didn’t know if he was nervous about crossing the grounds unseen or about seeing Cas again. Maybe a little bit of both, if he was being honest.</p><p>Bracing himself, he stepped out from behind the oak and moved forward as stealthily as possible. He veered away from the paths leading through the gardens and circled around the fountains, doing his best to remain out of sight. The windows of the manor stayed dark, and no one shouted to alert the others of an intruder, so Dean figured he was in the clear. It didn’t take the edge off.</p><p>Moving into the shadow of the manor only offered a slight relief. Dean pressed his back against the hard outer wall beneath Cas’ balcony and took a moment to breathe.</p><p>He’d made it. But it wasn’t over yet. He and Cas would have to make that trip again together, and it’d be much harder with two people.</p><p>Dean gripped his gun tighter, silently promising to get them both out.</p><p>He looked up at the balcony, his determination doubling. He was so close.</p><p>Quickly composing himself for whatever was to come, Dean walked to the other side of the balcony, where the trellis was fixed against the wall. Its wooden planks were bare of roses and thorns, and Dean was grateful for small mercies.</p><p>He shoved his boot into the bottom rung and began to climb.</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p> </p><p>It took Castiel a moment to recognize the familiar rattling sound of someone climbing the trellis. He furrowed his brow, breath trapped in his chest, and turned his face toward the balcony doors. Anxiety and hope ratcheted up his throat no matter how hard he tried to tame it—because it couldn’t be Dean. It couldn’t be. Dean was gone.</p><p>A figure slid over the balcony’s side railing. Dean’s face swam into view from the red flickering of the firelight inside.</p><p>Castiel jumped to his feet.</p><p>“Dean.”</p><p>He could barely get the word out. Too much emotion was swimming in his heart—love, anger, disbelief. Something like relief passed over Dean’s expression when his eyes met Castiel. He wasted no time coming through the door.</p><p>“Cas,” he said, hurried steps closing the space between them.</p><p>Everything except love fell away. Castiel rushed to meet him, and threw his arms around Dean. His knees felt as if they’d collapse as the weight of the past five months crested over him. He clung to Dean’s jacket, doing everything in his power to keep Dean from disappearing again—evaporating into the air like a dream. He buried his face into Dean’s collar, letting the scent of his skin bring him back to life.</p><p>“You came back,” he heard himself say.</p><p>Dean’s arms were wrapped around him so tightly, he could break Castiel in two; and Castiel would welcome it, just as long as he could stay in Dean’s arms. He drew away slightly at Castiel’s words to look at him. His green eyes were glassy. A flickering, shamed smile pulled at his lips. “’Course, I did.”</p><p>Castiel had been a fool. He should have known Dean wouldn’t leave him. He should have trusted Dean more.</p><p>He watched something dawn on Dean’s face. Dean’s features melted into confusion. He stepped out of Castiel’s arms and surveyed the room quickly. “Why aren’t you packed?”</p><p>Castiel narrowed his eyes in question. “Packed?”</p><p>Dean gave a frustrated sound and stomped toward the dresser. It was then that Castiel noticed the six-shooter in his grip. Dean placed the weapon on top of the dresser and yanked out a drawer; he started taking out armfuls of clothing. “We gotta move. The train’s leaving in an hour.”</p><p>Castiel shook his head. “What train?”</p><p>“Didn’t Benny give you my note?” Dean asked, turning around swiftly. He brought the bundle of clothes to the bed.</p><p>“No.” Castiel watched his progress. “Benny wasn’t here today. Zachariah said he was ill.”</p><p>Dean dropped the clothes on the mattress, worry passing over his eyes. “<em>What</em>? What about Jo? Did you see her today?”</p><p>Castiel tried to recall if he’d seen Jo all day. When he realized he hadn’t, fear stole over him like ice, though he didn’t know why. He had no idea what was going on. “No.”</p><p>Dean squared his shoulders, seeming to understand more than Castiel did. “Okay,” he said, recovering after a moment. “They’ll be alright. But we gotta go. Listen, I’m sorry I left, Cas. I’ll explain everything later, but we don’t got time right now.” He left the bed behind and walked back up to Castiel. He put two firm hands on Castiel’s shoulders. “Sam’s at the train depot waiting for us. We’re going to California. Tonight.”</p><p>Castiel’s heart skipped a beat. He knew he had a decision to make—to stay, to go along with the life that had been set out before him, or to follow Dean. Months ago, he’d hesitated. Now, he wouldn’t allow fear to separate him from Dean again. He wouldn’t allow <em>anything</em> to do that.</p><p>He mirrored Dean’s position, squeezing his shoulder. “Okay.”</p><p>Dean let out a shaky breath, his low-wattage smile turning more genuine. His hands moved up to cup Castiel’s face. Castiel tried to return his smile. He told himself all would be well. He and Dean would be together for the rest of their lives. Nothing else mattered.</p><p>He’d been so swept up in that thought, he hadn’t heard the footsteps outside until the bedroom door was swinging open. “Castiel—”</p><p>Castiel’s neck snapped in the direction of the doorway. His heart stopped. His grip tightened on Dean. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Dean’s jaw tighten.</p><p>Zachariah’s eyes were fixed on Dean, appearing unsurprised by his presence. “I see I’m already too late,” he said. Castiel recalled the note Dean spoke of. If Zachariah knew Dean was coming, it meant he must have gotten his hands on it somehow.</p><p>Zachariah stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. “Mr. Wesson. Now, how did I know I’d end up seeing your ugly mug tonight? I thought we’d agreed you would stay away.”</p><p>A wild wind whipped inside of Castiel’s chest. He <em>knew</em> Dean wouldn’t leave him on his own accord. It’d been Zachariah all along.</p><p>“Remember what you’re doing. It’s safer for everyone if you leave,” he cautioned, eyes straying pointedly to Castiel. It was a curious thing. Castiel had no idea what he’d meant by that. He glanced quickly at Dean, wondering if Zachariah had threatened him.</p><p>“Yeah, well, plans change,” Dean barked back. He stepped out of Castiel’s grip, putting himself between Castiel and Zachariah. Castiel hovered close behind him, his hand on Dean’s back.</p><p>“That’s unwise,” Zachariah said.</p><p>Castiel had enough of this standoff. He’d had enough of <em>Zachariah</em>. He wouldn’t let him meddle in their affairs any longer. “Leave, Zachariah,” Castiel ordered. “Dean and I are going. You won’t stop us.”</p><p>The butler didn’t seem threatened. He gave a wilting sigh. “You know, Castiel, I’m getting a little tired of your attitude.” He held up a lecturing finger. Slowly, he turned, moseying away from the doorway. He walked along the wall, his reflection passing through the full-length mirror. In the mirror, Castiel noticed the shadowy corners of the room behind him. The darkness deepened and swirled, seeming to come alive. Something cold licked at the back of his neck.</p><p>Dean turned his body, following Zachariah’s movements, intent on keeping himself as a barrier. Zachariah kept talking. “Seriously! After everything I’ve done for you. I mean—” he threw out his hands and gave a derisive chuckle, “you’re only here because of <em>me</em>! But do I get any kind of gratitude?”</p><p>Castiel tilted his head slightly, the frigid numbness seeping down his spine, spreading out to his fingers and toes.</p><p>“Oh, yeah, ‘cause you’re so <em>selfless</em>,” Dean spat as Zachariah lingered near the dresser. There was something in his voice. It dripped with fear, no matter how hard he tried to hide it. His stance had shifted somewhat, becoming even more rigid. Castiel remembered the gun on the dresser. He swallowed, telling himself not to be ridiculous. Zachariah was a bastard, but he wasn’t insane.</p><p>Dean continued, “You’re just in it for yourself. As long as the boss is happy, you get to live in this fancy mansion and control all the little people like some egotistical maniac!”</p><p>Zachariah hummed, seeming as though he agreed with the assessment. “Well, every man is the lord of his own kingdom, isn’t he?” he mused, turning slightly. He picked up the six-shooter, clasping it loftily and inspecting the barrel pointed up toward the ceiling. Castiel’s grip on Dean tightened protectively. Dean shifted to shield Castiel even further. He stepped backward, his back knocking against Castiel’s chest. He could probably feel just how furiously Castiel’s heart was pounding.</p><p>“And everyone needs to defend their kingdom,” Zachariah finished. He leveled the gun at Dean, finger hovering on the hammer. Castiel told himself it was just a scare tactic. He’d never really shoot. But the coldness was inside of him now, chilling his very bones.</p><p>“Get out, Mr. Wesson,” Zachariah said, leaving no room for argument.</p><p>Dean shook his head valiantly. “You’re gonna have to kill me.”</p><p>The gun clicked when Zachariah pulled back the hammer. And Castiel didn’t know if he was truly willing to murder Dean or if he was trying to intimidate him, but it had gone too far. “Zachariah, <em>enough</em>.”</p><p>“Castiel, for your own good, stay out of it,” Zachariah told him flippantly. And suddenly, the coldness was overcome by the flames of fury.</p><p>Castiel stepped around Dean and marched toward the butler. He ignored Dean calling his name. “I am <em>through</em> with hearing your opinions on what’s best for me,” Castiel seethed, his fists held tightly. He placed himself inches from the barrel of the gun. “If you want Dean, you’ll have to go through me. Either shoot or put the weapon down and get out of my sight.”</p><p>Zachariah faltered for a moment. “Castiel,” he reproved. “You don’t know what you’re saying. You have no idea what the whole story—”</p><p>“I don’t care.” He took another charged step forward.</p><p>“Cas!” Dean called, panicked. Castiel felt him step forward. He held out his hand, stopping Dean.</p><p>Castiel kept his sight on Zachariah. “Give me the gun.”</p><p>There was a pause. And then Zachariah sighed again. “Castiel—”</p><p>Castiel grabbed Zachariah by the lapels of his jacket and jerked him forward. Zachariah flailed, off-balanced. “I said, give me—”</p><p>A shot cracked through the air, deafening in the enclosed space. It made Castiel jump back, certain that he’d be shot. He put his hands on his stomach and searched himself for blood. He came away clean. Thank God.</p><p>He looked up, eyes burning. He didn’t care if the weapon had been fired accidentally. He’d almost been shot and enough was enough.</p><p>But then he saw the way Zachariah’s eyes widened with shock. It was only for a brief second before he schooled his expression. His gaze was fixed over Castiel’s shoulder.</p><p>The heat inside of Castiel drained at once, leaving a shivering cold again. He felt numb. Slowly, he looked around.</p><p>Dean stared back at him, face blank, eyes far away. Time seemed to be going agonizingly slow.</p><p>Castiel’s eyes flickered downward. Dean’s hand was splayed over his stomach. Blood seeping through the cracks in his fingers. He toppled to the floor at the same moment Castiel bellowed, “<em>Dean</em>!”</p><p>Castiel rushed to his knees over where Dean was sprawled onto the rug. Sticky red was already bleeding into the fabric, staining it with its bright, vibrant vermillion. “Dean,” Castiel echoed, collecting Dean in his arms. He propped him up on his knees. His hand slipped at first when he scrambled to press it to the wound. Dean’s breaths were coming out choppy. He kept grunting, color draining from his face.</p><p>“Dean. Dean, you’re alright,” Castiel tried, as if saying it with enough determination would make it true. Dean’s blood was wet on his hands, getting into the cracks and lines of his skin, escaping easily from beneath his palm. Dean fisted at the front of Castiel’s shirt.</p><p>“Cas.”</p><p>Castiel looked around wildly, searching for something to help stem the bleeding. His eyes fell on Zachariah, still standing near the dresser, expression firm as he looked on. Castiel tried to muster rage. All he felt was cold.</p><p>“Do something!” Castiel yelled. “Call for a doctor!” It had been an accident. Zachariah hadn’t meant to shoot Dean. If Castiel hadn’t startled him… No. It was all Castiel’s fault…</p><p>But it was an accident. They could still save Dean.</p><p>Calmly, Zachariah placed the gun back on the dresser. He pulled at his suit jacket and stretched his neck from side to side. He said, “No, Castiel. I’m sorry. But this is for the best.”</p><p>No. This wasn’t happening.</p><p>Castiel felt Dean’s hand blanket the back of his own over the wound. His touch was light.</p><p>“You’ll hang,” Castiel tried, more desperation than warning in his tone.</p><p>Zachariah glanced at Dean, a sad smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. “For a cowboy? A drifter?” he said softly, shaking his head. “No, Castiel. We both know I won’t.”</p><p>To his credit, he did sound apologetic, but it meant nothing to Castiel. The only thing that mattered was this: he was right. Even with a lawyer for a brother, it didn’t matter. It would never go to trial. Dean had broken onto the grounds after being fired. Dean had brought a gun. Castiel’s only defense was to admit Dean had come for him, not to hurt him, but so they could run away together. No authority in the world would find that sympathetic. Especially not his father. Chuck would find a way to sweep this under the rug.</p><p>“Trust me,” Zachariah told him gently, “one day, you’ll come to thank me.”</p><p>Castiel could hardly bring himself to glare. He didn’t have any room for hatred. Ice ran through his veins. Out of the corner of his eye, the shadows along the walls amassed.</p><p>Zachariah walked for the door, pulling it open. Castiel’s heart gave a feeble jump. “Zachariah!” he shouted, knowing it was useless. The door closed behind the butler.</p><p>Dean squeezed Castiel’s hand, and Castiel swiftly looked down at him. His eyes were bloodshot, the green of them hazy. There was sweat on his brow, causing his pallid face to appear waxy. Castiel could practically see the warmth leaving him. “Cas.”</p><p>“You’re alright,” Castiel told him.</p><p>Dean gave a laugh that sounded more like a cough, a smile that was more of a grimace. “Yeah, gonna have to disagree.”</p><p>Castiel shook his head, not knowing what to do. “Dean… I’ll get help.”</p><p>“Hey,” Dean eked out, stopping Castiel from moving. “Listen—listen to me. Go to the train station. Find Sammy. Tell—tell him… It’s okay. The two of you can take care of each other.”</p><p>Castiel shook his head more quickly, pinching his lips together firmly. “No.” He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t look Sam Wesson in the eyes for the first time and tell him his brother was dead and Castiel was to blame.</p><p>Dean ignored him. “The two of you… go to California. Go, Cas. Find somebody.”</p><p>Castiel pulled his brow together, not understanding and not caring. “Dean.”</p><p>“Find somebody who’ll make you happy. Marry them. <em>Promise</em>.”</p><p>They weren’t having this conversation. Castiel couldn’t do it. He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t live in a world without Dean. For so long, Castiel had waited for him without even knowing it. His life began the day Dean walked through the door. It had terrified him, and he ached for it when Dean left. But, now that Castiel had him back, how could let something like that be snuffed out?</p><p>It didn’t even seem possible. Dean was too full of life, of light and warmth. He was a holy thing, something death couldn’t touch. Just being in his presence made Castiel feel the same. Whole. Alive.</p><p>Without Dean, he’d be forever torn into two.</p><p>“I don’t have to because I have you,” Castiel told him pointedly. “We’re going together.”</p><p>Dean tried laughing again. There was blood on his lips. It trailed out of the corner of his mouth, slipped down the side of his face. His eyes searched Castiel, seeming as if they weren’t seeing anything at all.</p><p>“Cas, I’m so sorry.”</p><p>Castiel’s eyes were stinging. He told himself not to cry. Dean wasn’t dead. He couldn’t die. If he stopped himself from crying, Dean would live.</p><p>“I’m… I shouldn’t’a—left in the first place. <em>Fuck</em>.” Dean’s throat worked as he struggled to swallow. His breaths were coming out slow.</p><p>He was going to die.</p><p>Castiel’s faith drained from him like sand through his fingers. “No. Dean. I’m—I’ll get someone to call for a doctor,” Castiel told him. That meant he’d have to move. He’d have to leave the room. He prayed Dean could hold on until he came back. He shifted, meaning to lay Dean down on the floor.</p><p>Dean grabbed him tighter. His fingers constricted over Castiel’s hand. He gripped at Castiel’s shirt. “Cas—Don’t… Just… Stay.” His voice was shaky and wet, and he withdrew his hand from Castiel’s shirt to skate his fingertips across Castiel’s jaw. His hands were colder than Castiel had ever known them to be; they left blood in a trail on Castiel’s skin. Dean smiled weakly up at him, dull eyes gaining back a fraction of their luster. And Castiel knew he was afraid. He reached up, smoothed his thumb down the lines between Castiel’s eyes.</p><p>Castiel breathed out something halfway between a laugh and a sob.</p><p>Dean hummed distractedly, clearly trying to gather his strength. He dropped his arm. Voice low and rough, he said, “I’m sorry, Cas.”</p><p>“Don’t be. Because you’re going to live,” Castiel told him. “Just hang on, Dean. I’ll get help.”</p><p>Dean stared back at him, eyes distant. He kept staring. Castiel felt Dean’s hand atop of his go slack.</p><p>Castiel blinked. Numbness stole over him.</p><p>“Dean?”</p><p>Dean was unresponsive.</p><p>Castiel's heart was dead in his chest.</p><p>“Dean.”</p><p>He tried moving, pulling Dean up to him. Dean’s head tilted back. His arm slipped to the floor. He was a heavy, lifeless weight in Castiel’s arms. Around him, his blood had stained the rug so deeply, it was black.</p><p>Castiel cradled Dean closer, moving his hand from Dean’s wound to his shoulder and pulling him against his chest. He sunk his face into Dean’s neck. He didn’t smell like himself. He smelled like blood and iron.</p><p>“<em>Dean</em>.”</p><p>Castiel was still breathing. It didn’t seem right. How was he still breathing when Dean was not? When everything that mattered was already dead?</p><p>Grief was too small a word for the emptiness inside of Castiel. Just as love had been too small. Surely there was more to it than that. Surely there was enough of it for Castiel to love Dean back to life.</p><p>Frigid fingers danced along the back of Castiel’s neck, so close to touching. But it felt different this time—more than ever as if it were a physical thing. He exhumed his face from the hollow of Dean’s throat, his bleary eyes glancing up through his lashes.</p><p>There was something there—in the corner of the room. A shadow with a shape. Castiel saw it in his peripheries. He looked over slowly, defying the terror in his chest telling him to turn away.</p><p>A woman stared back at him. She was dressed in all black, spirals of dark hair around her like a halo of shadow. Red lips. Distant eyes, but distant as in a hurricane over the ocean, a wall of rain pouring from black clouds, forks of lightning lighting up the sky. It was only a matter of time before they reached the shore.</p><p>The woman stepped out of the corner, into the light flickering from the hearth.</p><p>Castiel couldn’t speak.</p><p>“Hello, Castiel,” she said, voice like a snowstorm—gentle, deadly. “It’s about time you and I met face to face.”</p><p>Castiel hardly blinked as he tracked her unhurried movements. She came to a rest in front of him, towering over him and Dean. He shook his head past the fear clogging his throat. “Who… How did you—”</p><p>“Get here?” she asked, arching a brow. “Hard to say. I’ve been here a long time.” She kept staring down at him with vacant eyes. A thousand questions came to Castiel’s mind. He didn’t know how to ask any of them. “Figured I’d come say hi while the veil is thinnest.” She tilted her chin, indicating Dean.</p><p>Dean’s eyes were just as empty.</p><p>And suddenly, knowledge dawned on Castiel, no matter how impossible it seemed. He recalled his bible studies throughout his education; he thought of the scripture the priests would preach at Sunday mass. “You’re the angel of death.”</p><p>“You can call me Billie.”</p><p>Castiel didn’t know if he was supposed to laugh. He couldn’t even if he tried. He felt as if all his energy had drained out of him. But it didn’t matter. If she was Death, she was intent on Dean. Castiel wouldn’t let her have him. He hugged Dean closer to his body to protect him.</p><p>“Easy,” Billie told him. “I’m not here for him.” She tilted her head, regarding Dean. “He’s already gone.”</p><p>Despair and hope fought for dominance inside of Castiel. He looked up at her again with wary desperation. If she wasn’t there to take Dean, perhaps she was there to help him. “Can you bring him back?”</p><p>Billie shook her head impassively.</p><p>Despair and hope morphed into anger. He didn’t care who this woman was. She could kill him, too, for all he was concerned. He’d welcome it. “Then <em>why</em> are you here?”</p><p>Slowly, Billie dropped down to the floor, crouching in front of Castiel. “I told you: to talk.”</p><p>Castiel didn’t understand. What would Death want with him? “I don’t—”</p><p>She didn’t wait for him to finish. “You see, Castiel, I’ve had my eye on you for a while now. Ever since you were a boy. Ever since you died.”</p><p>He wasn’t following any of this. She had the wrong man.</p><p>Before he could even voice his thoughts, she assured, “Yeah. You died. And your father had a witch trade your mother’s life for yours.”</p><p>He was going insane. That’s what this was. He was mad with grief. None of this was real.</p><p>“But, in doing so,” Billie went on, “she shackled me to you. Keeping me at a distance until it was time to collect my due.”</p><p>Castiel searched her face, unsure what exactly he was searching for. Her expression remained emotionless, neutral. It offered no answers. He narrowed his eyes, thinking back to that feeling he’d had all his life. Like something was after him, closing in.</p><p>It had been her.</p><p>“You’re trapped,” he realized. She was trapped, just as he was.</p><p>She nodded. “I’m bound to you.”</p><p>He should have felt sick. He felt <em>nothing</em>.</p><p>Dean’s deadweight was becoming almost too heavy to bear.</p><p>“Why are you telling me this?”</p><p>“Because,” Billie said, “I’m here to offer you a choice. You can come with me now—free me, be with Dean in death—or you can wait until I come back for you, which is certain now that your true love’s gone.”</p><p><em>Dean</em>.</p><p>Castiel’s gaze dropped down to him. His eyes were veiled.</p><p>A realization struck him. Billie was trapped. She wanted release. He was in control.</p><p>He returned his gaze to her. “I will go with you—willingly. But, first, you have to bring Dean back.”</p><p>Billie only stared for a moment. She said, “I can’t.”</p><p>It was unacceptable. “Can’t or won’t?”</p><p>“Can’t,” she reiterated forcefully. “The balance between life and death is delicate. To give life, another life has to be taken.”</p><p>“I just said I’d—”</p><p>“Not you.” She seemed to be looking through him. “I told you why. You’re already marked by death.”</p><p>Castiel was hopeless. He shifted, trying to cradle Dean closer. He could feel Dean’s body slipping from him. He wondered if he <em>should</em> go with Billie; if he <em>should</em> be with Dean. They’d have eternity.</p><p>But no. Dean deserved to live. He <em>had</em> to live.</p><p>“There must be a way,” Castiel said. He refused to give up. Dean hadn’t given up on him. “There <em>has</em> to be. Bring him back now or I will <em>never</em> go with you.”</p><p>Billie turned her head slightly, more intrigued than threatened. “Oh yeah? How are you gonna manage that?”</p><p>He didn’t know. But he knew where to start. He thought back to that day in town when he saw Rowena. She’d tried to warn him, and he chose to believe she was insane. He should have listened. If there really was such a thing as magic and the spirit realm, Rowena was his best bet. She was willing to help him before; maybe she’d help him now. At the very least, she could help him find the witch that had resurrected him in the first place. “There’s a psychic. I will go to her and find a way.”</p><p>She scanned him up and down.</p><p>“Bring Dean back,” Castiel demanded, “or I will make sure you are never free, even if I have to live forever.”</p><p>Billie seemed to consider. She climbed to her feet in a fluid motion, looking down at him again. After a long time, she said, “There may be a way.”</p><p>Castiel drew in a deep breath, not daring to yet show his relief.</p><p>“You and him—your souls are connected by love. That means he’s the only person who’d be able to bring you fully to life,” Billie told him. “I can break that connection and trade its energy for his life.”</p><p>He tried to keep up. He couldn’t.</p><p>Billie paced away, circling. “Think of your souls as oppositely charged poles,” she explained, tone even and measured. “They’ll be held apart, under tension. It’s the same principle that keeps your planet revolving around the sun. The same thing that keeps the stars apart.”</p><p>Castiel thought he was beginning to understand.</p><p>She stopped walking again in front of him. “But there’s a price.”</p><p>What did that matter to him? “Whatever it is, I will gladly pay it.”</p><p>“Maybe. Maybe not,” she answered, crossing her arms over her chest. “But I want you to understand what you’re agreeing to. You’ll cease to exist. As long as his soul is around, yours won’t be. It won’t be heaven. It won’t be hell. All it’ll be is nothingness—forever.”</p><p>It sounded horrible, to be nothing. No thought. No dreams. No time.</p><p>And it sounded peaceful, too.</p><p>On second thought, Castiel supposed, really, it wasn’t so bad. He wouldn’t even know the difference.</p><p>His eyes lingered on Dean. “And he’ll live?”</p><p>“Yes,” he heard her say.</p><p>And there was no question, really. Castiel felt no fear.</p><p>Gently, he placed Dean’s body on the floor and got up. His legs were shaky beneath him, limbs on pins and needles. He forced himself to stand tall and meet Billie’s eyes. In them, he saw a vast emptiness. “I accept.”</p><p>Billie nodded once, as if all of this was of little consequence. He supposed, to something like her, it was.</p><p>Unsurely, he asked, “How does it work?”</p><p>Billie considered for a moment. She said, “I can give you a do-over of tonight—send you back to a place that kicks things off a few seconds earlier than last time.”</p><p>He knitted his brow together. “What good will a few seconds do?”</p><p>“A lot. Trust me,” she said, and Castiel supposed he had no other choice than to take her word for it. “Point is, it’ll be harder for Dean to get to you. You’ll be alone, and you’ll have to kill yourself. I’ll take care of the rest.”</p><p>Castiel swallowed down the lump in his throat, fighting back the doubt creeping in. He imagined Dean finding his body, the hope draining from Dean’s face.</p><p>They’d been so close to freedom.</p><p>He nodded.</p><p>“Everything that happened now?” Billie continued. “He won’t remember it. And neither will you.”</p><p>Castiel looked at her uncertainly. “Then how will I know to end my life?”</p><p>Briefly, Billie’s eyes glanced upward at the rafters. She said, “You’ll know. Deep down.” She gave him another assessing look. “I think you’ve always known, Castiel.”</p><p>He tensed his fists at his sides and looked downward at Dean. There was a deep, red stain in the shape of Castiel’s hand where he’d been holding him. And there was blood on Castiel’s palms. Dean stared up blankly at the ceiling. Castiel wasn’t heartbroken. He couldn’t be. His heart was gone.</p><p>But, soon, it would come back to life.</p><p>“Can I say goodbye?” he asked Billie.</p><p>Billie nodded again, and he wondered if he should thank her. Instead, his eyes fell closed. He breathed in, knowing his number of breaths was running out. When opened his eyes again, Billie was gone.</p><p>Castiel didn’t know how much time he had, so he didn’t intend to waste it. He got back on his knees, a shaking but genuine smile on his face. He studied Dean, knowing that this time, when they were apart, Castiel wouldn’t even have a photograph to remember him by. He wondered if he’d remember anything at all where he was going. If there was one thing—just one—he wanted it to be Dean.</p><p>He reached out and closed Dean’s eyes with the tips of his fingers. Then, he picked up Dean’s limp arm and collected his hand. “Mr. Wesson.” He kissed Dean’s knuckles. There was still some warmth in them.</p><p>And Castiel was cold. It surrounded him, permeating him from the outside in. He could feel those icy fingers again. They reached for him, touched his neck, a physical thing.</p><p>He kept his eyes on Dean and felt at peace with his decision. For Dean, he’d die a thousand times.</p><p>“Dean,” he said. He leaned over Dean and aligned his hand to the stain on Dean’s shoulder. The cold was enveloping him now. It was complete.</p><p>He knew it was time.</p><p>Hoping that, somehow, Dean would hear him, he said, “I will always love you.”</p><p>Castiel closed his eyes and breathed out, emptying his lungs. Darkness took over…</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p> </p><p>Castiel was pulled back into reality. He blinked, rattling away the cold sensation in his gut. He swiveled around on his place at the end of the bed to look at the clock on his nightstand. 11:55 PM. He watched the seconds hand tick by.</p><p>11:55 and 43 seconds… 44… 45… 46…</p><p>Ripping his eyes away, he looked down at his hands. The sinew and tendons shifted under his white knuckles as he gripped his knees. Inside, his lungs expanded sluggishly, each breath counting out the time he had left until the carriage took him off to Boston in the morning.</p><p>There must have been a way out.</p><p>He tilted his chin upward, gaze resting on the canopy above. Dean always hated that canopy. Castiel imagined ripping it down and fashioning the curtains into a rope. His eyes snagged on the rafter just over the foot of the bed.</p><p>It would be the easiest way out. After all, what did he have left in this life that was truly his own? Even his dreams in the night had been stolen, faded to nothing. Even there, he no longer saw Dean’s face.</p><p>But what if there was a chance he could see Dean again?</p><p>Dean might have given up on them, but Castiel couldn’t. He lowered his face and looked toward the balcony doors. Whenever Dean needed a quick escape, he took the trellis. Castiel could, too. He could find Dean. He could go to Boston, track down Bobby Singer, have him lead him to Dean.</p><p>A voice in the back of his head told him he was being foolish. That it was impossible. That, even if he could find Dean, Dean wouldn’t want him and Castiel would be alone. That he’d never be able to make it in the world on his own, and it was better to live in a cage than it was to die a failure.</p><p>But there was another voice whispering beneath it, one that sounded like Dean’s. It told him that freedom was worth fighting for.</p><p>He had to try. He couldn’t just sit there and do nothing, not when he could practically feel the clock ticking the seconds away as though it was counting down to something. Time was short. It pressed in.</p><p>Standing up quickly, Castiel crossed to the balcony doors and opened them, stepping out into the brisk night. The silver moonlight hung as orb over the mountain, and the wolves howled toward it, mournful for loving a thing they could not reach. He bent over the stone railing, noticing for the first time just how far the fall would be if he made one wrong move.</p><p>He moved to the side of the balcony and reached for the trellis, wrapping his hand along the wood to give it a shake. It held firm, and he was certain it could hold his weight after all the times Dean had climbed up and down it.</p><p>He could pack a bag, climb down and hop the fence. He could find Dean—</p><p>There was a quick knock at the door, and the intruder didn’t wait before entering. “Castiel—” Zachariah began, stopping short when he clocked Castiel leaning over the balcony.</p><p>Castiel swiftly retracted his arm, doing his best to appear innocent while also infuriated. “Don’t enter until I call for you,” he demanded.</p><p>Zachariah ignored him and paced further into the room, expression almost amused, as if he’d wanted to catch Castiel in some nefarious act. “What are you doing out there?” he asked, tone snide and eyes hawk-like.</p><p>Castiel folded his arms behind his back. “I’m… getting fresh air.”</p><p>“Uh-huh,” Zachariah hummed, clearly not believing him. Castiel's gut clenched as he watched Zachariah step out onto the balcony and eye the trellis.</p><p>“You know,” the butler said airily, “I’ve been meaning to have the new groundskeeper get rid of this eyesore.”</p><p>Castiel knew that any move he made to stop Zachariah would further give away his plan for escape. He supposed he could always throw Zachariah off the balcony, but finding Dean would be even more difficult if he was running from the authorities. Even if it would be satisfying.</p><p>“Why don’t we do it ourselves now?” Zachariah said. Without waiting for an answer, he shoved past Castiel and reached for the trellis. Castiel gritted his teeth against the sounds of Zachariah grunting with exertion, against the audible splintering of wood from iron fittings.</p><p>The trellis toppled forward onto the grass with a barely-there thud, and Zachariah smacked his hands together in satisfaction. “There. Much better.”</p><p>Castiel formed tight fists. Inside, his pulse slowed and sputtered out. His heart retreated back into the darkness.</p><p>He watched Zachariah move back into the bedroom, and he couldn’t hold his tongue. “Am I your prisoner?”</p><p>Zachariah stopped and wheeled around. “Don’t be so <em>dramatic</em>, Castiel.”</p><p>Castiel stormed inside. “Then why? You’re the one who told me Dean isn’t coming back. Why destroy the only thing—”</p><p>“Because you’re more than capable of acting on your own accord,” Zachariah interrupted darkly. “You’ve proven that well enough.”</p><p>Castiel didn’t know why, but the words shocked him. He’d never thought of it in such a way.</p><p>He supposed Zachariah was right. Castiel just hadn’t seen it before.</p><p>Zachariah tipped his head toward the bed. “Get some sleep, Castiel.” He plastered on a bright smile. “Big day tomorrow!” With that, he was gone, closing the door tightly behind him.</p><p>Castiel’s eyes strayed to his wedding suit hanging on the mirror before he let them slip closed.</p><p>He thought of the life he could have lived if only he hadn’t been afraid.</p><p>Walking back to the bed, he resumed his place on the edge of the mattress. There was something curling inside of him, in the deep, unfeeling hollow that had sat in his chest for months. For years. For the first time in a long time, Castiel could feel his own heart beating. It raged against his ribcage, urging him into action. It came on quite suddenly and spread out from his center, moving like a wildfire through his veins. Anger, righteousness, fury. He didn’t know what to call it.</p><p>But it didn’t matter. Because, for the first time, he <em>wasn’t</em> afraid.</p><p>His life was his own. And he’d rather die than go back to letting someone else control it.</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p> </p><p>Dean stayed crouched next to the oak tree. He turned away from the carriage house and refocused on Cas’ window—and there, a shadow against the flickering glow of the fire, he saw a broad-shouldered silhouette moving toward the bed.</p><p>Cas.</p><p>Dean’s breath stuttered at the sight of him. All he could do for a long moment was stand completely still, starstruck by his first sight of Cas in five months. It was too brief, and he felt like he’d stepped into a dream.</p><p>Cas was waiting for him.</p><p>Dean pulled his gun out of his waistband and held it at the ready, just in case someone did spot him.</p><p>His heart was pumping loudly in his ears, and he didn’t know if he was nervous about crossing the grounds unseen or about seeing Cas again. Maybe a little bit of both, if he was being honest.</p><p>Bracing himself, he stepped out from behind the oak and moved forward as stealthily as possible. He veered away from the paths leading through the gardens and circled around the fountains, doing his best to remain out of sight. The windows of the manor stayed dark, and no one shouted to alert the others of an intruder, so Dean figured he was in the clear. It didn’t take the edge off.</p><p>Moving into the shadow of the manor only offered a slight relief. Dean pressed his back against the hard outer wall beneath Cas’ balcony and took a moment to breathe.</p><p>Something caught his peripheries, and his stomach immediately dropped. On the other side of the balcony, the trellis was laying on the grass.</p><p>“Shit,” he hissed, hopelessness arresting him. He gripped his gun tighter, quickly looking around. If the trellis was cut down, someone could have suspected he was coming. It could have just been a precaution—or it could have been a real threat.</p><p>But no one came out of the shadows. Not even Zach.</p><p>Dean would just have to be careful. And he needed to find a new way in, because he couldn’t prop the trellis up against the wall and climb. It’d fall over with his weight.</p><p>He considered throwing stones at Cas’ window instead, but the noise might alert someone. Besides, Cas would still need to sneak out through the house.</p><p>Dean bit down on his jaw, trying to form a plan. He didn’t come all that way to give up. He was too close now.</p><p>He remembered the music room. Swiftly, he sidled along the wall toward its window. Sending up a silent prayer, he tested whether or not it was unlocked. The window whispered open.</p><p>Dean breathed, full of relief.</p><p>“<em>Thank</em> you, Cas,” he muttered.</p><p>Shoving his gun back into his waistband, he hauled himself through the window.</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p> </p><p>There was a sound coming from outside. Castiel turned his head toward the balcony doors. There was nothing there but the starry night. The distant, fearsome howl of the wolves.</p><p>He thought of something he’d read once about wolves. When caught in a trap, they’d gnaw their own leg off to escape. It was a ridiculous notion, to claw and bite and howl for freedom only to bleed out in the end. He’d never considered that the animal wasn’t accepting defeat. It was an act of willfulness; it was a choice. It was ensuring that it would die on its own terms. The wolf refused to let the hunter decide its destiny.</p><p>Castiel wanted to live. For the first time, he knew he was alive. He could feel it in every beat of his heart, every breath, in the way his fingernails dug into the palms of clenched fists. Before, he’d been hollowed out, paralyzed, empty. He would be that way again, no matter how he raged and railed; it would overshadow him eventually, make him an echo of himself. A phantom. It was no life at all.</p><p>Castiel wanted to live on his own terms.</p><p>He’d been offered that. He’d been given an opportunity to run—he’d been given a chance—and he’d numbly refused. By the time he changed his mind, it was too late. And now he was trapped.</p><p>There was nowhere he could go where he wouldn’t be found. There was no way he could remain without accepting defeat. Dean was gone, and he wasn’t coming back. Castiel couldn’t wait for him to return. He was alone, and perhaps he always had been. Still, he was grateful for the time he had with Dean. He was grateful that Dean had been the catalyst that had breathed life into him.</p><p>But now it was time Castiel took control, to stop wallowing in self-pity and to <em>prove</em> his life belonged to him. Once and for all.</p><p>And it was wondrous, being able to choose what to do with his life, even if the choice was how and when he’d come to an end. It was wondrous to choose anything at all. For the first time. For the last.</p><p>There was a fire in his chest. It spurred him off the bed. He ripped down the canopy, holding the fabric tightly in his fists. He looked down at it, deciding that it was sturdy enough to fashion into a rope. His knuckles were white, bone and sinew noticeable beneath transparent skin. He refused to let them shake.</p><p>He turned his eyes upward, gaze burning into the rafters of the ceilings. He tensed his jaw.</p><p>He was beaten down, backed into a corner. He was stripped of all other options. And, if they wanted to trap him, so be it. He’d gnaw off his damn leg.</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p> </p><p>Dean crept out of the music room, being sure not to step on any of the floorboards he knew would protest beneath him. He kept his six-shooter in his hands, held low but ready. The hallway was dark, the only light coming from the warm, crackling glow in the entrance foyer. He tip-toed in that direction and kept close to the wall.</p><p>Just as he reached the mouth of the hallway, he heard a loud sigh coming from the mezzanine. Dean hit his back against the wall, his grip tightening on his gun. Zachariah jostled down the staircase in the foyer. Dean’s heart was hammering so loud, he hoped the butler wouldn’t hear its echo off the high ceilings.</p><p>Zachariah paused momentarily in the pool of moonlight which painted the carpet as it flooded in from the high windows. His silhouette was bathed in fiery light from the hearth. He looked up at the portrait of Chuck and slapped his arms against his sides in exasperation. “I’ll get him to the church on time, sir,” he said, almost like a prayer to an apathetic god. He must have known no one was listening.</p><p>Except for Dean, who rolled his eyes.</p><p>Zachariah turned toward the west wing’s corridor and disappeared into its shadows. Dean waited for his footsteps to fade away. His pulse still clunked against his ribcage.</p><p>When he was sure he was in the clear, he rushed into the foyer, eyes set on the stairs. Briefly, just as the butler had, he paused in the center of the room to look up at Chuck’s looming face. “Fuck you,” he said, hoping to counter Zachariah’s prayer. It probably wouldn’t, but he was satisfied anyway.</p><p>He went on his way, only managing to hustle up three steps before a voice came from behind him.</p><p>“That’s far enough, Mr. Wesson.”</p><p>On reflex, Dean whipped around, gun leveled at Zachariah. His jaw was held tight, every muscle coiled.</p><p>Zachariah seemed undeterred. He paced further into the room, a mix of faux-disappointment and amusement in his eyes. “I was waiting for you to show up. Glad I caught you.” Dean didn’t dare to even swallow. The creeping paranoia he’d felt since he stepped into Amherst, since he saw the trellis on the ground, caused goosebumps on his skin.</p><p>The butler stopped in front of the fireplace, one side of his face lit up by the flames. Folding his hands before him, he said, “Remember what you’re doing. We’d agreed it was better for you to stay away.”</p><p>“Change of plans,” Dean told him, and thumbed the hammer of his gun down to show he meant business.</p><p>Zachariah shot him a skeptical look. “A gun? Really? You’re not going to shoot me, Dean. It’ll wake up the entire house. How easy do you think it’ll be to find a solution for Castiel’s issue while you’re on the run for murder?”</p><p>Dean wanted to tell him they would already be on the run—from him, from Chuck, and from everyone Chuck could hire. But Zachariah was right. This house seemed to swallow sound, but a gunshot coming from the foyer would be too loud. He’d be caught for sure.</p><p>He’d never get Cas out of there.</p><p>With that in mind, he slowly eased the hammer back into place and held his hands up. He put the gun into the back of his waistband.</p><p>“Much better. See? You <em>are</em> capable of seeing sense,” Zachariah taunted. He turned to the fire and grabbed the poker off the rack. Embers jumped off the logs under his command. “So, is it more money you’re after?”</p><p>Dean scoffed. “I’m here for Cas.”</p><p>“I’m afraid that isn’t an option.” He placed the fire poker back on the rack and turned to Dean.</p><p>Dean glanced upward at the balcony railings. He was wasting time, and for some reason, there was a pressure in his gut that told him time was running out.</p><p>“Screw your options.” He jumped down the steps and stormed toward Zachariah. “I don’t give a damn about your <em>options</em> or your stupid face.” Zachariah frowned. Dean ignored it. He got into Zachariah’s space, making the butler have to tilt his head to look up at him. “I’m getting Cas and I’m leaving.”</p><p>“And I’ll send for the authorities,” Zachariah quipped. “Have you arrested for trespassing on private property and kidnapping.”</p><p>“Try it,” Dean challenged. “We’ll be long gone by then and they’ll never find us. I’ll make sure of that.” He nodded up toward the portrait. “Doubt your boss would like that very much.”</p><p>Zachariah’s face darkened. But that’s all it was: a dark look. He was all talk. Dean wasn’t afraid of him.</p><p>“So, you wanna stop me? Do it yourself.”</p><p>He squared up and kept Zachariah’s eyes, giving him as much time as he needed to make a move. It never came.</p><p>Dean nodded, letting himself relax fractionally. “Thought so.”</p><p>He turned around, ready to head back for the stairs—for Cas. But, before he knew what was happening, Zachariah had grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and kicked out the back of his knees. Dean fell to a kneel on the stone in front of the hearth, the shock of pain it caused flaring up his thighs and up into his gut.</p><p>Zachariah pushed his face closer to the fire—so close that the heat singed Dean’s cheeks.</p><p>“I’ll stop you,” Zachariah gritted out, leaning forward to speak close to Dean’s ear. “And, while I’m at it, I’ll teach you a little bit of respect.” Dean felt the gun being lifted out from his waistband. He heard it click, felt the metal press against his lower back through his clothes. Adrenaline made his breath come out choppy. He bared his teeth.</p><p>Zachariah pulled him back and then pushed him forward again, making Dean fall to the side. The iron rack standing beside the hearth clattered and toppled over with him.</p><p>Zachariah tossed the gun away, and it skidded over to the stairs, far out of Dean’s reach.</p><p>“You know, I <em>wanted</em> you to rot in a penitentiary for the rest of your life,” he said, stepping over Dean and leaning down to grab the front of his shirt. Dean barely heard his next words, because Zachariah lifted him up and slammed him back down. The back of Dean’s head hit the stone. A starburst of pain ignited through his skull.</p><p>“I wanted you to know Castiel was out there, married, free, and that he—none of us—needed <em>you</em>.”</p><p>He slammed Dean down again. Dean’s vision whited out.</p><p>His arm stretched out to the side, scrambling for something to grab hold of. Something he could use as a weapon.</p><p>“But, let’s face it, Dean. If you disappeared off the face of the earth, no one would even notice.”</p><p>Dean's hand connected with something warm, something iron. The fire poker. He wrapped his fist around it.</p><p>Zachariah slammed him down again. Dean’s neck was aching. He thought he was bleeding. His mind was swimming.</p><p>“Certainly not me,” Zachariah finished, reeling Dean’s body up again.</p><p>Dean didn’t think. He slammed the iron into Zachariah’s temple, the sharp side squelching into his flesh. Zachariah’s fists released Dean’s shirt. He gave a choked, stunned sound, his eyes going wide.</p><p>There was something burning inside of Dean. He had stood on his front yard and watched his home go up in flames. His mother inside. Burning. Burning. Burning still. The flames reflected in Zachariah’s eyes.</p><p>And maybe Zachariah had been right about him. Maybe he didn’t deserve Cas. Maybe he would always be this: a killer, blood on his hands, nothing above the hungry wolves howling outside.</p><p>And maybe Cas was the only person who ever made him feel like he could be different.</p><p>But Cas wasn’t looking right now, and Dean always knew he’d kill for him.</p><p>Dean ripped the poker away, blood spraying in its wake. Zachariah’s eyes dimmed and his posture slouched. Dean pushed him off of him and climbed to his feet. He let the poker fall from his grip.</p><p>Zachariah stared up at him lifelessly, his body wedged into a slumped position at the edge of the fireplace. Blood flowed down and pooled on the carpet under him.</p><p>Dean took in a steadying breath, letting the fire in him burn out. He straightened his shoulders to fight back the remorse creeping in. Tinnitus rang in his ears despite his effort to shake it away. He grimaced and touched his hand to the back of his head, only to hiss and draw back blood. Luckily, it wasn’t enough to be of concern. At least, not at the moment. He looked upward. “Cas.”</p><p>Turning away, he went for his gun and shoved it into his waistband again.</p><p>Running at full speed, he left Zachariah behind and went up the stairs, down the hall. He skidded to a stop outside Cas’ door.</p><p>“Cas?” he said, not bothering to keep his voice down. He knocked hard on the door. “Cas, it’s me. It’s Dean.”</p><p>There was no sound from inside—no footsteps, no voice. Dean’s stomach was in knots. What if Cas really did hate him?</p><p>It didn’t matter. They’d figure it out. But they had to go before anyone found Zach’s body.</p><p>Dean knocked again. “Cas, I’m coming in.” He gripped the knob and pushed inside.</p><p>“Cas?”</p><p>The first thing his eyes landed on were Cas’ feet. It made everything inside of him freeze. And, at first, he didn’t understand what he was looking at.</p><p>Not until his eyes moved up Cas’ body.</p><p>Something in Dean’s chest collapsed in on itself. Like a black hole, it sucked in everything, light and warmth and matter alike.</p><p>He opened his mouth and drew in a sharp breath, a shout forming in his lungs.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0024"><h2>24. Chapter 24</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>
  <b>CONTENT WARNING! (and spoilers for this chapter)</b>
</p><p> </p><p>again with the content warnings! again with the high-ass chapter word count! yes, here we are again.</p><p>like last chapter, i just wanted to flag the (temporary, technically) MCD here. after cas died, we all knew that dean was gonna have a not so great time. that's what this chapter deals with. unlike last chapter, i <i>do</i> explicitly show his death, and it's pretty gory. if you're not up to reading this right now, please hold off until you are.</p><p>but!! i think you'll all be happy to know that, right after the chaos, the happy ending that i've been promising for so long kicks off! and it kicks off in the last scene of this chapter! we finally made it!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>1868</strong>
</p><p>The cigarette between Dean’s fingers was burned down to the nub. He’d only taken one pull from it before forgetting it completely in favor of staring blankly at the workshop’s back wall. Brittle, gray ash drifted down to the hay-strewn ground he was sitting on. Only when the stinging heat from the tip touched his skin, did Dean realize he ought to stub the cigarette out.</p><p>He flicked the butt away, watching it bounce on the dirt, and leaned his head back on the wooden wheel he was sitting against. He was supposed to be fixing up the throughbraces on someone’s rig that had been taken in for repair. All morning, he’d been in Bobby’s workshop for that purpose. But, all morning, he sat and stared instead. By that point, he couldn’t even feel the early December cold nipping at his fingertips and cheeks.</p><p>There was frost on the ground outside the doors. One hundred miles away, frost covered Cas’ grave.</p><p>Dean closed his eyes, a ring of bruises on white flesh popping into the forefront of his imagination. Sometimes, he thought his throat still hurt from screaming himself hoarse. Sometimes, his knees were still sore from kneeling over Cas’ body for hours, until the beginnings of dawn broke over the mountains. He left before the house began to stir, before anyone found Zachariah’s body in the foyer, before daylight made it impossible for Dean to sneak into the forest.</p><p>He barely remembered walking through the trees and finding his horse, tied to a limb exactly where he left her. The memory of finding Sam, stricken with concern, headed in the opposite direction on the road between the manor and Amherst in search of Dean, was foggy at best. Dean wondered what he’d said, how he’d explained the situation to his brother.</p><p>However it happened, the two of them immediately left Amherst and headed back for Boston. The police never came knocking down Bobby’s door to arrest Dean for murder, so Sam figured he was in the clear. For Dean’s part, he didn’t have the capacity for relief. Every waking moment left his eyes burning with the need for sleep that would never come. There was a constant, constricting pressure in his throat that never let up. It wasn’t painful. It was just <em>there</em>, bringing Dean to the verge of madness. Always.</p><p>Dean had touched Cas’ neck. It hadn’t been broken, which meant it hadn’t been a quick death. Cas had suffocated.</p><p>Dean was suffocating still.</p><p>The door on the other side of the workshop rolled open, letting in a sweeping breeze that caused the straw on the ground to tumble. A strip of sunlight cut across the floor beneath the buckboard’s undercarriage. It hit the toe of Dean’s boot.</p><p>Sam’s shadow blocked out the light as he walked inside. “Dean?”</p><p>Dean quickly wiped at his dry eyes and picked himself up to a crouch. He pretended like he’d been hard at work this entire time. “Yeah?”</p><p>Sam walked around to the side Dean was working on and wrapped his hand around the top of the wood. His voice was too gentle. “Hey. Bobby asked me to see how it’s going out here.”</p><p>Barely glancing at him, Dean gave a <em>humph</em> sound. He doubted Bobby actually asked Sam to check up on the buckboard. Sam probably offered—because he really wanted to check up on Dean. And Dean would rather be left alone.</p><p>Bobby knew that, more or less. When Dean and Sam got back to Boston, Bobby immediately put Dean to work on repairs, like he did when Dean was first old enough to hold a hammer and he was worried about John taking longer on a hunt than he was supposed to. And Dean was grateful, because broken wheel axles, splintered side panels, and damaged brakes, he could fix. And they were just about the only things he <em>could</em> fix right now.</p><p>When Bobby came into the workshop, he’d only talk about the repairs. Sam, on the other hand, wanted to talk about how he could repair Dean. Dean knew that, and despite that fact, he answered with a grunted, “Fine,” in hopes that Sam would accept the answer and leave him alone.</p><p>He should have known better than to open his mouth at all.</p><p>“Okay,” Sam said, and from his tone of voice, Dean knew his brow was furrowed with <em>compassion</em> and <em>understanding</em>. “Do you need me to do anything?”</p><p>Dean huffed. He stopped working and, still bending over, turned his face to Sam to stare at him with flat, dull eyes. And, yeah, there was Sam’s <em>compassionate</em> and <em>understanding</em> expression.</p><p>“I’m good.”</p><p>He refocused on his work.</p><p>Sam hovered for a moment, kicking at the dirt. The way he was breathing suggested he had something on his mind. It took a few long seconds for him to say, “Dean, come on. It’s been almost a month and you’ve barely said two words at a time.”</p><p>Dean’s jaw tightened. He didn’t really know what to say to that.</p><p>He remembered, when he was young, after his mother died. He hadn’t spoken for months. Dean wondered how long it would take before he knew what the hell to say.</p><p>There was nothing <em>to</em> say. Nothing that would make it better. Nothing that would heal the tearing sensation in his gut and the gaping hole in his heart. Nothing that would make the anger and guilt and sadness go away.</p><p>“Yeah? Is <em>talking</em> gonna bring him back?”</p><p>If Dean could <em>talk</em> his way into reversing the clocks back to that night, if he could get there earlier, if he could find a way to save Cas, he’d talk until he was blue in the face. Hell, he’d talk if he could even utter Cas’ name at all apart from when he screamed it in his sleep.</p><p>He couldn’t speak.</p><p>“No,” Sam sighed. “But it might—I dunno—help you figure out what happened. You could talk to Benny or—or Jo. See what went wrong. It might help you feel better.”</p><p>Dean wasn’t interested in feeling anything at all.</p><p>He turned away quickly and headed for the work bench. Idly, he flicked through the grease-slick tools. “I know what went wrong,” he said, agitation simmering inside him. “Cas hanged himself.”</p><p>Just saying it was like a dull knife was twisting in Dean’s abdomen.</p><p>“Dean—”</p><p>“You know, he didn’t even leave a note?” Dean spat, wheeling around. He dropped the wrench in his hand onto the work bench, ignoring the way it clattered. “He didn’t think anybody cared. He didn’t think <em>I</em> cared.” He jabbed a finger into his own chest, pacing closer to his brother. With every word, his voice grew louder. Every word bringing a sick thrill of delight through him, desperate for self-flagellation, eager to make Sam berate him, too. “And now, he’s in the ground because <em>I</em> left him there to rot. So, you tell me, how’s <em>talking</em> gonna make that okay?”</p><p>Sam looked away, his throat bobbing and clicking. Dean paused, trying to get a hold of his anger. He hadn’t meant to take it out on Sam. Maybe a part of him wished Sam would yell back, would lay into Dean, because Dean deserved it. But Sam didn’t yell. He remained quiet and pained, and it was worse.</p><p>It was worse than feeling rage. Worse than guilt.</p><p>Tears sprang into Dean’s eyes suddenly. He rubbed at them, trying to hold them back. He didn’t know how. He didn’t know how to do any of this. To keep going, knowing he was breathing for two now. Knowing he’d have to live the rest of his life without Cas.</p><p>And what would happen when he got used to living with this grief? When it became nothing but the occasional, sharp stab of memory? When he couldn’t even keep Cas alive in that way?</p><p>Cas had left behind nothing for Dean to remember him by other than love. Other than the constriction in his throat and the deep, dark void in his chest that Dean only recognized by the absence of the one who used to fill it. It swallowed Dean whole. What happened when it spit him back out?</p><p>Dean couldn’t feel Cas’ presence anymore. What happened when he couldn’t even feel Cas’ absence?</p><p>More than once, the thought crossed Dean’s mind that he didn’t <em>have</em> to let Cas go. That he could find a way to bring him back to life. He knew about magic. He knew about necromancy. What use was any of that knowledge if he couldn’t use it to save the man he loved?</p><p>Every time the possibility reared its head, Dean felt closer and closer to acting on it. He wondered what the final straw would be. He wondered how far he’d be willing to go.</p><p>“I dunno what you want me to say,” Dean said, unshed tears still burning. He sniffed and shrugged. A fracture ran through his words: “He was my best friend.” And still, the barest of smiles tugged at the corners of his lips. There was too much grief in that sentence. Too much joy that he got to say it at all.</p><p>Sam nodded. Voice low and thick, he said, “I know.”</p><p>Dean wasn’t sure he did.</p><p>“But you can’t keep going like this,” Sam said, and at least he was right about that. “Obviously, Cas never got your message. I’m not saying find someone to blame. I’m just saying… If you don’t know what happened, you’re never gonna be able to fully move on.”</p><p>Dean nodded down at his boots. He knew Sam was right; he just didn’t know that he <em>wanted</em> to move on. It felt like a betrayal.</p><p>“Listen, I can go back to Amherst with you—or <em>for</em> you,” Sam offered. “But you need answers.”</p><p>“No,” Dean said too quickly. He closed his eyes and breathed in. “No, it’s… You’re right. I gotta talk to Benny. It’s gotta be me.” It might even be easier if he went alone. He could have time to center himself without Sam and Bobby watching him.</p><p>“Okay,” Sam said, seeming to accept it. “Let me know if you change your mind.”</p><p>Dean nodded again, even though he wouldn’t change his mind. He needed to do it alone. He needed to find answers—for himself. For Cas.</p><p>He tried to swallow. His throat was too tight.</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p> </p><p>The trip to Amherst had been a lot different than the last time. Dean got the first train out, and as the locomotive chugged through the woods and grassland, sending puffs of smoke into the cold blue sky, Dean stared blankly out the window. There was no nervous, excited energy about seeing Cas again; no paranoia of his plan being found out. No anticipation. No hope.</p><p>Instead, there was a swirling mass of anger and despondency that ran blacker than the train’s smoke plumes. And maybe, at the very center of it, there was fear. Fear that going back to town, seeing Benny, learning what had happened that day, would make it real.</p><p>Cas was gone.</p><p>And maybe that’s what Dean feared most. That he’d arrive in town and he wouldn’t feel Cas’ presence there, either. He wouldn’t feel that pull—like a tide, like gravity—toward wherever Cas was. All he’d feel was empty.</p><p>The train pulled into the station in the late morning, and Dean set off on foot in the direction of Benny’s apartment. The street was different than the last time he was there, too, full of life with carts rumbling down the road filled with goods and straw, with people milling around and children laughing as they chased one another.</p><p>In fact, the whole town seemed different. Foreign. Without Cas, Amherst was just another town on the map. No longer home. Dean didn’t have a home.</p><p>Dean wondered if Benny would actually be at his apartment or if he’d be at the manor. He guessed, if Benny wasn’t home, Dean could return later that night. Giving it a try, he knocked on the door. It didn’t take long for footsteps to come from inside.</p><p>The door opened, but instead of Benny’s friendly face, Dean found himself looking at a head of blonde hair and surprised brown eyes.</p><p>“Dean,” Jo breathed, almost making it sound like a question.</p><p>“Jo?” Dean asked. “What are you doing here?”</p><p>“I was just gonna ask you that.”</p><p>Dean guessed it was a fair question but, now that he was there, he didn’t want to answer it. He wondered if he was better off not knowing. What difference would it make, anyway? Sam said it’d make him feel better. Dean wasn’t so sure. He thought it’d make him feel worse. But maybe that’s exactly what he was trying for.</p><p>“I was looking for Benny,” he said, dodging the real answer.</p><p>Jo placed a slender hand on the doorframe. “He’s not here. He and Andrea moved back to Louisiana a couple weeks back.”</p><p>Dean jerked his head back, stricken. His mouth felt dry. He tried to come up with an explanation, but his mind fizzled. He had a feeling it was his fault. “Why?” He could barely get the word out.</p><p>Taking a long moment to study him closely, Jo asked, “You don’t know? What happened after…” Dean tensed himself, preparing to hear the words spoken aloud.</p><p>
  <em>After Castiel died.</em>
</p><p>They never came.</p><p>“Dean,” Jo said again, sorrow lining the word. “I’m sorry.”</p><p>And, somehow, hearing that was worse.</p><p>Dean closed his eyes, telling himself not to let emotion get the better of him. He could feel it thrashing in his chest, beating at the back of his eyes, swelling in his mouth, eager to spill out. When he was sure it wouldn’t, he opened them again.</p><p>“Here, come in,” Jo said, stepping to the side. “I just made a pot of coffee.”</p><p>Dean wished that made him perk up, but coffee wasn’t much good to him these days. He’d been so damn tired for weeks; he forgot what it was like to feel awake. All his life, he lived with adrenaline pumping through his veins, always causing him to sleep light, run fast, strike hard. Now, it seemed that it had all run out. He walked through life like he was on the cusp of a dream and wakefulness: with his limbs heavy and paralyzed around him, his senses dulled, his thoughts sluggish.</p><p>He just wanted to either fully slip back into unconsciousness or wake up. He didn’t really care which anymore.</p><p>Jo led him down the hall, and he couldn’t help but to notice the two leather suitcases sitting near the entrance. He ignored them for now, only allowing himself a brief moment to assess the line of her shoulders to wonder if she was moving in or out. Once in the kitchen, he crammed himself into the small table wedged into the corner. Jo brought over the coffee pot from the stove and two mugs.</p><p>“So. How’ve you been holding up?” she asked while pouring the coffee.</p><p>Dean watched the dark liquid patter into his cup, the steam rising up. The smell alone made him feel both starving and nauseous. “Yeah, good,” he lied.</p><p>Jo shot him a look, knowing it was bullshit. “Looks like it.”</p><p>He took a sip, hoping to draw attention away from the lines on his face, the veil over his eyes. The coffee tasted like bitter ash, but at least it warmed him slightly of winter’s chill. Jo kept looking at him, grief written in her expression. He knew she felt guilty, too.</p><p>She shouldn’t have.</p><p>He set the cup back down and cleared his throat. “Jo, I don’t blame you,” he told her. “And I don’t blame Benny. I’m just looking for answers.” He shook his head marginally, ruefully. “We had a plan.”</p><p>She nodded down at the mug nestled between her hands. “Yeah, we did,” she said, shifting her thin shoulders like she was readying herself for hard truths. She explained, “When Benny got into work that morning, he pulled me aside, told me what’s up. He cooked Castiel’s breakfast at the usual time, slipped the note under the plate, had me deliver it. But… Zachariah—” Dean tensed at the name. He remembered the butler’s blood on the carpet.</p><p>It’s not like Dean had never killed another human before, but that time was different. It wasn’t on a battlefield. It wasn’t for Congress or country. It was for Cas. It was because Zachariah got in the way.</p><p>“I dunno,” Jo was saying. “Maybe he was just being extra cautious. Maybe he figured you’d try something. But he stopped me before I could get upstairs—found the note. Fired me on the spot.” She laughed mirthlessly, bringing her eyes up to the ceiling in memory. “He fired Benny, too. I didn’t tell him he was involved, but… We’re your friends. Guess he didn’t want to take any chances.”</p><p>Dean swallowed hard, more guilt than before cresting over him. Being a Wesson’s friend was a mistake. Jo’s father knew that. At least Jo and Benny had only lost their jobs, not their lives.</p><p>“We tried to stick around—try to get the message to Castiel somehow,” Jo finished. “But Zachariah basically did everything short of having the cops walk us off the property. I couldn’t even pack up my belongings first. Someone had to drop them off here the next day.”</p><p>Dean scoffed in disgust, having the thought that he wished he could kill Zachariah all over again. It was jarring. Immediately, his stomach turned. He’d tried not to be that person. Cas had made him believe he could change. But killing Zach proved he couldn’t. Dean was a soldier; a killer. It’s what he was. A harbinger of death. It’s what he’d always be.</p><p>“That son of a bitch,” he breathed out.</p><p>“You’re telling me,” Jo said, but there wasn’t any humor in her tone. She was studying Dean’s face knowingly again. “But I guess he got what was coming to him, huh? Guessing that was you?”</p><p>Dean nodded down at his coffee. “Yeah. No one… no one came looking trying to pin it on me.”</p><p>“I know,” Jo sighed. “They… They said Castiel did it. And that’s why he…”</p><p>Dean felt sick. He couldn’t stand it—people thinking Cas didn’t just kill himself, but he was a murderer, too. A murderer too scared to go to prison, who’d rather die. The worst part was, Chuck would have never believed that. Even if he thought Cas was capable of killing Zachariah, he must have known the real reason his son killed himself.</p><p>Dean wondered if he even cared.</p><p>“Anyway,” Jo said. “After that, Novak wanted nothing to do with the house. Rumor has it, it was supposed to go to Daphne Allen. Castiel left her everything in his inheritance.”</p><p>“That sounds like Cas,” Dean said, pride mixing with sadness. Cas wanted to make sure Daphne was taken care of before he died. But that would require forethought. He wondered how long Cas had been planning on taking his own life, how long he put it off until he couldn’t anymore. Until all hope was gone.</p><p>Dean should have gotten there sooner.</p><p>He blinked away the welling in his eyes and focused on what Jo was saying: “Yeah. But she didn’t want the house. Can’t really blame her after everything that happened. She took the money and moved to New York with her brother. And Novak had the manor packed up, fired the rest of the staff. The house got boarded up and he moved to his new place in Boston for good.”</p><p>Dean had caused so many people to lose their livelihoods—because he was selfish, because he’d been too slow. Because he never once stopped to think about how anyone might be affected by him and Cas in the first place. Regret cracked against him like the end of a whip.</p><p>“Jo, I’m sorry,” he said, voice low and rough.</p><p>“Hey,” Jo said gently, reaching across the table to blanket her hand over his. “There’s no way you could have known Castiel would do what he did.”</p><p>“I shoulda.”</p><p>“Dean.”</p><p>Briefly, Dean wondered if he should tell her about the curse on Cas, about Abaddon. That he’d known, deep down, that Cas would never fall in love with Daphne. That he’d die no matter what. And, even if he didn’t, he’d be trapped in that manor, in the life his father had wanted for him, in the life Cas hated, after Dean promised him freedom. And Dean had left him, anyway.</p><p>But then she’d blame him. And maybe that’s what Dean wanted—to hear the words out loud. To feel justified in his grief and self-loathing, to punish himself for being so damn stupid and not thinking about the consequences to his actions. To falling in love in the first place, to thinking he could actually have a happy life. To thinking anyone he held wouldn’t break in his grip.</p><p>He might as well have tied the rope for Cas himself.</p><p>Or maybe she’d tell him the same thing Sam and Bobby had been saying for weeks. Things like, <em>it’s not your fault</em>. Things like, <em>you can’t blame yourself</em>. And Dean didn’t know if he could hear those words again from someone else.</p><p>He took his hand out from under Jo’s, telling himself he didn’t deserve the warmth she offered. “So, that’s why Benny moved away?” he said, changing the subject.</p><p>Jo took it in stride. “Yeah,” she said. “He wrote to me when he and Andrea got settled. They’re in Baton Rouge. He got a job as the cook at some hotel.”</p><p>Dean was at least glad to hear that. “That—That’s good. And you?”</p><p>“He said I could stay here, help them sell the place while I looked for another job.”</p><p>He remembered the luggage in the hall. Nodding in that direction, he said, “Looks like you’re ready to go.”</p><p>“New owners are moving in tomorrow,” Jo told him. “I looked for a job around here but… I don’t think I wanna stay. I’m getting a train in the morning. Figured I’d head to Colorado, be close to my mom. Or, who knows? Maybe I’ll stop in Nebraska for a while.” A slow, wistful smile tugged at her cheeks, like she was thinking of a life she could have had. One of learning and art, gilded halls and a full family and a place to call home.</p><p>Dean ached and ached.</p><p>“I haven’t been there since I was a kid,” she finished.</p><p>He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know if he wanted to rage or break down. In the end, all he could say was, “Good.” It was low, barely audible. He tried not to see her departure—or Benny’s—as more people leaving him.</p><p>“What about you?”</p><p>His eyes snapped back up to her, jaw slack. He didn’t have an answer. He guessed he really hadn’t thought much of the future since he found Cas hanging.</p><p>“I dunno.”</p><p>It all seemed so daunting now—impossible. There was so much <em>time</em> left. So many years left to live. But what was there left to do? Where was there left to go? He used to think he wouldn’t out-live his days of witch hunting, but he had. He thought he’d die in battle, but he hadn’t.</p><p>He thought he’d grow old with Cas, but now there was so much time stretching in front of him and Cas was gone. And Dean couldn’t feel him anywhere. But he had to live anyway.</p><p>How could he?</p><p>How could he just accept Cas was dead? To not fight to get him back like he’d fought for everything else? It felt like killing him all over again.</p><p>“Dean,” Jo said in cautious tones, and Dean didn’t know what she’d seen in his eyes, but she went on, “I just wanna make sure you’re not thinking about doing anything stupid.”</p><p>He drew in a sharp breath and held it in his chest. Again, he could feel something constrict around his neck. He wanted to tell her not to worry, but it would sound hollow. In truth, he didn’t know what he’d do, but he knew he didn’t want to lie anymore.</p><p>“I should go,” he said quickly, standing up.</p><p>She blinked in surprise, staring up at him.</p><p>“Thanks for the coffee.”</p><p>“No problem,” she answered, recovering. She stood up, too, and the two of them drifted back into the hall. Dean walked slowly, part of him wanting to stretch it out for as long as he could, to linger in her presence because she was leaving.</p><p>When they reached the door, she said, “You know, if you’re gonna be in town overnight, you could stay here. There’s room.”</p><p>Dean appreciated the offer. He tried for a weak, tender smile. “Nah. Thanks, but I’m—I’m not staying. Headed back to Boston.”</p><p>“Okay,” Jo said, seeming disappointed. She flicked her hair over her shoulder and stood up straighter, like she was rallying herself. Her voice was probably thicker than she wanted it to be when she told him, “I’ll write to you wherever I land. And you better write back.” She jabbed her finger into his chest.</p><p>“You got it.” It sounded hollow. It sounded like a lie.</p><p>Whether she knew that or not, she didn’t say. All humor fell from her expression. “Bye, Dean,” she said, folding into him for a hug.</p><p>Dean hugged her back, splaying his hands on her shoulder blades and keeping her close. He’d miss her.</p><p>Before drawing away, he pressed a kiss to her hairline. “Bye.”</p><p>She nodded, her smile not reaching her eyes.</p><p>Dean opened the door and left. He wasn’t really sure where he was headed next.</p><p>Or maybe he was. Even if he’d resolved to stay away, he knew he couldn’t.</p><p>As always, he was headed for Cas.</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p> </p><p>Just as Jo said, the manor was deserted. Nothing but an old house sitting atop a silent hill, the winter winds whistling as they whipped along its outer corners. The sky ahead was pale blue, like a set of eyes veiled in death, and the sunlight on Dean’s cheeks didn’t do much to combat the cold.</p><p>He’d hopped the fence and walked up the drive, then made for the back of the house. He kept his head down, not daring to look at the snow-covered mounds where the gardens used to be, not casting a glance toward the carriage house. The pathways hadn’t been shoveled from the recent snowfall, and Dean’s boots crunched on the ice with every sinking step toward the garden with the cherub fountains.</p><p>The fountains themselves hadn’t been covered with burlap and tied with twine, and Dean doubted protecting them against the winter was a priority anymore. If Jo was right, no one would ever live in this house again. Charles Novak had no heir, and he doubted Anna would want to return to the place where her brother died.</p><p>Still, not everything about the manor was dead. Snowdrops poked out of the frost, their heads bowed in mourning and the bright green leaves promising a new life. Dean brushed the snow off of them with his fingertips, sniffing in the cold reddening his nose. He plucked a few of the flowers and fashioned a paltry bouquet that he twirled gingerly between his hands.</p><p>He guessed this would be the last time he ever brought Cas flowers.</p><p>He made for the tree line, wondering if it would be better to leave the flowers in Cas’ garden and avoid the cemetery altogether. But he guessed that would be cowardly of him. Besides, he didn’t want to go to the garden, anyway, and see it cold with untouched snow. It was more of a grave than anything else on the grounds could ever be.</p><p>Or, at least, that’s what Dean thought up until the moment the iron fence of the cemetery came into view between the grey tree trunks. Within it, a new headstone stood next to the one that marked Cas’ mother’s final resting place.</p><p>Dean realized he’d stopped walking. He stared at the gravestone for a long time, building up the courage to take the next step. Snow was piled on top of the graves and their markers. Dean couldn’t look away. His legs were frozen. He white-knuckled the stocks of the flowers in his fist. In the barren trees above, the cawing of the crows echoed through the forest, their sound traveling far, carrying on forever.</p><p>Dean shook his head and urged himself forward, not allowing himself a second to think before pushing through the gate. The dryness of his eyes was replaced with stinging moisture, no matter how he tried to blink it away.</p><p>Cas’ name was chiseled into the stone, the years he’d lived signified only by the dash between his birth and death. There was no epitaph. No loving words for a man who took his own life. Dean wondered if a priest had even come to read scripture at the funeral—if anyone had come at all. Maybe Chuck had just put his son in the ground to hide his shame.</p><p>No flowers on the earth. No mourners.</p><p>Except for Dean.</p><p>He stepped forward, doing his best to put on a smile, even though he didn’t know why. No one was there—certainly not Cas.</p><p>He couldn’t feel Cas anymore.</p><p>So, he guessed no one would mind if his smile was shaky and watery, if he looked silly talking to a gravestone when he breathed out, “Hey, sweetheart.” Only the crows answered.</p><p>He crouched down at the side of the gravestone and laid the flowers at its base. Slowly, he started wiping the snow off the top of the marker, hearing it whisper off the stone. It left his fingers frigid to the bone, but he didn’t stop.</p><p>That was his job, right? To take care of everything on the grounds.</p><p>As Dean worked, he realized didn’t know why he’d gone back there. He guessed he just needed to see it for himself—that Cas was gone, buried. But, now that he was there, it still didn’t seem real. He imagined Cas appearing over him, placing his hand on Dean’s shoulder. So badly, he wished he could feel even a phantom of the touch.</p><p>He didn’t.</p><p>The vast, empty void in his chest clenched, filling with anger. It overcame Dean for a moment, a flashbang of a spark. It screamed: <em>Why? Why did you do this to yourself? Why did you do this to us? You promised you’d wait for me!</em></p><p>It screamed: <em>Why didn’t you get to him sooner? Why did you make him wait? Why did you leave him? You were supposed to protect him!</em></p><p>When it was gone, it left him even colder. He wasn’t prepared for the emotion that welled inside him and racked up in throat, like the emptiness was trying to get out.</p><p>He clasped his fist on the stone and skewed his eyes shut, trying to keep it all inside.</p><p>Only after he knew he’d gotten himself under control did he blink back into the light. He spread his palm against the tombstone, and found it as cold as Cas’ hands. He didn’t know why he’d come.</p><p>He picked himself up and shoved his hands into his pockets, his eyes never straying from the patch of earth before him. It hurt to swallow. He nodded. The only thing there was dirt. “Yeah,” he said dryly, though he didn’t know why. He turned and headed out of the cemetery, back toward the manor.</p><p>The windows to the music room were locked, so Dean threw a stone through one to shatter the glass, figuring there was no one left to care, anyway. He reached inside and opened the latch, then slid the window open to haul himself through.</p><p>Inside, the fireplace was cleaned of coals, its scorched bricks marred deep with ash. The books that once lined the shelves were gone, likely packed away and put in storage. A strange quietness stole over the house—one Dean never thought he’d hear. Even at night, the silence had never been so complete. It <em>felt</em> empty.</p><p>It needed sound.</p><p>He paced over to the piano and ran his fingers over the polished wood. The ghost of a smile pulled at his lips as he remembered all the hours he and Cas wasted in front of this thing. Of the song Cas had written for him.</p><p>Dean pressed down on a key, hearing it reverberate against the ceiling. The note sounded vacuous, nothing like music. Cas didn’t come through the door and admonish Dean for <em>not doing it right, let me show you</em>. And Dean couldn’t laugh in response and kiss the too-serious frown off Cas’ face.</p><p>And he realized at once why he’d gone to the manor. He was searching for Cas.</p><p>He’d thought for sure he’d find him at the piano, like he had been when Dean had first found him, but Cas wasn’t there.</p><p>Dean left the music room, the floorboards beneath the carpet whining under his boots as he slowly paced toward the foyer. He lingered momentarily, looking to the spot near the fireplace where he’d left Zachariah’s body. The blood had been scrubbed out of the rug, not a trace of it left. Like Zachariah had never been there at all. Like Dean had no one to blame for everything that went wrong other than himself.</p><p>He went up the stairs, his palm gliding against the smooth banister in a hushed sound. He climbed up to the east wing and moved into the hallway. How many times had he done that? How many times had his skin buzzed with anticipation and his stomach fluttered with happiness during this same journey? How many times had Cas’ hand been in his, leading him to the room at the end of the hall?</p><p>Dean reached his hand forward, expecting to feel the memory of Cas’ fingers touch his skin. Nothing came.</p><p>The door to Cas’ bedroom was closed. Dean pushed it open and let it swing, hearing it knock against the wall. He stood in the doorway, watching the dust particles dance in the sun rays that streamed through the balcony doors and windows. His footsteps thudded against the floorboards when he stepped inside.</p><p>The room looked the same as it ever did, but it felt empty. Even the drawers were emptied, Dean discovered upon opening the dresser. All of Cas’ belongings were probably put in chests and placed in the attic.</p><p>Dean turned, his eyes drawn to the spot on the floor that he’d been trying to avoid up until that point. He imagined Cas’ body laying there, eyes closed, a bruise around his neck, his chest still, Dean kneeling beside him, staring down at an empty shell.</p><p>Dean felt empty, too. He tore his gaze away.</p><p>He gave the spot on the floor a wide breadth as he paced to the bed and sat on the end. The mattress had been striped, all the luxurious comfort the blankets and pillows afforded now gone. Dean gripped his knees and breathed. He couldn’t pick up even a lingering hint of Cas’ scent. He tilted his head back. All he saw was the rafter that Cas had hung himself from. The same rafter that Dean had tried to carve a protection sigil into months ago, when he thought he could protect Cas.</p><p>But he hadn’t protected him. Maybe he never truly could, not without saving Cas from himself. Dean should have known that. He should have seen it coming and took Cas away from the manor sooner. He should have tried harder. Instead, he failed.</p><p>For a single moment, Dean wanted to find whatever was left of the bed’s canopy and hang himself there, too. To follow Cas.</p><p>Some emotion was welling inside of him again. It started in his chest, spreading out to overcome his heart. And how could Dean do this? How could he be expected to live knowing his heart was beating for both of them from now on?</p><p>He took a slow, sweeping look of the room, eyes finding one of the sigils he’d carved. In the baseboard, the doors, under the windows.</p><p>He picked himself up from the bed and went to one beneath the windowsill across the room. He ran his fingers over it, and it didn’t feel like it held any power or protection. It felt like ridges in wood. And the rest of the house felt empty.</p><p>Because Cas wasn’t there. Because Dean couldn’t find him.</p><p>And, suddenly, he knew exactly what emotion was inside of him.</p><p>He reeled his arm back and slammed his fist through the window. The glass shattered, filling up the silence with its sharp sound. Dean yelled, letting the blood and pain on his fist spur him on. He kicked at the sigil until the wood splintered around it, until its useless protection was erased.</p><p>He moved to the balcony doors and kicked those sigils, too. He tore open the drawers of the dresser, let them crash and clatter and break against the floor. He punched the wall, bruising and splitting his knuckles. Fury overwhelmed him, so much that he couldn’t think, could hardly see. He raged and raged until every protection sigil he could reach was gone, until his throat was cracked from shouting, and his body went slack, all energy drained away.</p><p>When it was over, he found himself gripping the bedpost, his breath coming out broken and labored. All other sound had died away, leaving only the consuming silence. Hot blood dripped down his hands to stain his wrist.</p><p>Dean ripped his eyes open, staring hard at the floor where Cas’ body had been.</p><p>He was supposed to protect Cas. He was supposed to save him. And he’d failed.</p><p>How could he do that? How could he just accept that and move on?</p><p>He couldn’t. He wouldn’t.</p><p>Dean bit down hard on his jaw, grief and anger making way for determination.</p><p>He wouldn’t leave Cas in that grave with no mourners.</p><p>He was getting him back.</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p> </p><p>“You wanna do <em>what</em>?” Bobby shouted from his place behind his beaten desk, laden with journals and tomes. Sam was perched on the side of the desk, and he was shaking his head down at the floor. Dean had gotten back from Amherst that afternoon, and he wasted no time telling them what he was planning.</p><p>Part of him hadn’t wanted to, because he knew he’d get push back. He might as well have stayed in Amherst so he didn’t have to hear them try to talk him out of resurrecting Cas. But he couldn’t do it alone. He needed their help. And he wasn’t asking for permission.</p><p>“Have you lost your fool mind?”</p><p>Dean wanted to tell him he’d lost a whole lot more than that. Instead, he crossed his arms over his chest and squared his shoulders to show he meant business. “I’m thinking clear,” he assured.</p><p>Bobby didn’t seem to agree. His voice grew so loud, Dean was surprised it didn’t kick up a wind and put out the fire in the hearth behind him. “Ain’t anybody <em>thinking clearly</em> considers necromancy!”</p><p>Dean sighed in annoyance, letting his posture slacken.</p><p>“He’s right. This is crazy—not to mention dangerous,” Sam chimed in, lifting his eyes to look at Dean. Dean couldn’t look at him head-on. He <em>really</em> didn’t want Sam talking him out of it, and Sam might have been the only person who could. Dean needed to be resolute. “I know you miss him, but—”</p><p>“It’s not a question of that,” Dean interrupted, hearing the hostility in his own tone. “It’s about doing the right thing. He’s dead because of me!”</p><p>Sam’s expression melted. “That’s not true.”</p><p>But it <em>was</em> true. Dean had left him. If he hadn’t done that, Cas would still be alive. They’d have their second chance.</p><p>“Even if it were,” Bobby added, “what are you gonna do? Sacrifice your life for his?”</p><p>If it came to it, that’s exactly what Dean would do. He wanted Cas back; he wanted to be with him. But, if only one of them could live, he wanted it to be Cas. It <em>should</em> have been Cas. Because Cas wanted to change the world. Cas wanted to promote literacy and give people the ability to choose their own destinies. Cas could help people. And because Cas was good and glowed from the inside out and deserved to live free.</p><p>And Dean? Dean’s time for helping people was over. He thought he was entitled to a little selfishness, and if that meant dying for Cas, so be it.</p><p>Dean licked his lips, knowing he couldn’t tell Sam and Bobby any of this. “I just wanna talk <em>options</em>.”</p><p>“What options?” Bobby shot back incredulously. “You know full well every ritual in necromancy involves blood.”</p><p>“That’s not true!” Dean argued. “What about the spell my dad used?” Before he even finished the sentence, he was met with grunts of protest. He ignored them, just like he ignored the memory flashes of blood, screaming, and a blast of white light. “He didn’t have to die for it.”</p><p>“Yeah, he had to be brought to the <em>brink</em> of death,” Bobby yelled back. “It damn near killed him! It <em>did</em> kill everyone else in the room. And—oh, yeah—it didn’t actually <em>work</em>!”</p><p>“That’s because that witch made it go wrong! It might’a worked otherwise!”</p><p>“Dean. Stop,” Sam said, voice low and seething. He was clasping his fists tightly on his lap. “Listen to yourself, would you? <em>You’re</em> the one who always said Dad shouldn’t have done that ritual.”</p><p>That wasn’t fair. Dean wasn’t some hypocrite. He just never understood before now. He crossed his arms across his chest, feeling the back of his neck prickle defensively. There was no way he could explain this to Sam to make him understand. He’d never lost the person he loved; he’d never failed to save them. “Yeah, well… I get it now,” he said lamely.</p><p>Sam bristled. “Look, I’m <em>begging</em> you. Think about what you’re saying.”</p><p>Dean had thought about it. Over and over again. He thought about the darkening bruises on Cas’ neck more.</p><p>“And think real hard,” Bobby advised, sitting back in his chair. “There’s a reason necromancy was banned.”</p><p>Now, they were just reaching for excuses. “Banned?” Dean challenged. He unfolded his arms and leaned over the desk. “You mean, banned by the Men of Letters? Well, every one of the Men of the Letters left is here in this room. So, I vote to <em>un</em>ban it.” He raised his hand and glanced between Sam and Bobby, even though he knew which way they’d vote already.</p><p>Still, his stomach soured when he saw neither of them were on his side. He didn’t know if he felt more bitter or betrayed, dejected or desperate. Whatever it was, it fueled his anger. He straightened back out and fixed them both with cutting glares. “Fine. Help me, don’t help me—I don’t care. But I’m doing this. So, you want to stop me from doing something <em>stupid</em>? You better jump on board.”</p><p>Into the silence that followed, Sam and Bobby shared a long look. They must have known he was serious. Dean kept his expression icy, refusing to waiver. The only way they’d be able to stop him was by chaining him up—and Dean knew how to pick a lock.</p><p>Bobby relented first. “Alright,” he said, sounding like it went against his better judgement. “But only so you don’t get yourself killed.”</p><p>Even if the help was given against Bobby’s will, Dean was still grateful. His chest swelled slightly, tentatively allowing hope. But he couldn’t celebrate just yet. He looked to Sam, who was staring downward, the line of his jaw hard, eyes harder.</p><p>“Sam?” Dean prompted, hoping it sounded authoritative. Because, despite Dean’s threats and posturing, he needed Sam on his side. If Sam said no, Dean honestly had no idea what he’d do. He’d give up before he even really got started.</p><p>Anticipation and misery churned inside of him the longer Sam stayed quiet.</p><p>Then, Sam glanced up, features still angry. But he looked angry at himself this time, not Dean. “We’re just looking for <em>options</em> right now,” Sam told him. Dean felt like he could breathe again. “Options,” Sam repeated firmly through his teeth. “If we can’t find any that are safe, we stop. Deal?”</p><p>No. No way. Dean didn’t care what happened to him. He didn’t care about safety.</p><p>But he’d cross that bridge when he got to it.</p><p>He nodded. “Yeah, fine. Deal.” He tried to make it sound as convincing as possible.</p><p>Sam narrowed his eyes at him, assessing him closely. But he seemed satisfied—or, at least, as satisfied as he could be under the circumstances. He relaxed his posture somewhat and nodded in return.</p><p>Dean felt lighter already.</p><p>“Well, now that we’re all on the train headed for Insanityville, I’m guessing you wanna know what spell your Daddy used?” Bobby asked.</p><p>Dean perked up a little, feeling like a dog with a bone. “You know which one he used?”</p><p>Bobby tilted his head in a half-nod. “Sure do. It’s from the Book of the Damned.”</p><p>“What?” Sam asked at once, seeming shocked. He stood up from the edge of the desk and turned around to face Bobby.</p><p>Dean was at a loss. He shook his head. “Is there something I’m missing?”</p><p>Sam scoffed slightly, overcoming his surprise. “Yeah. The Book of the Damned is the grimoire the ancient necromancers used. It was one of the reasons that form of magic was outlawed. The spells in it were too powerful.”</p><p>“That’s right,” Bobby said. “The Men of Letters had it under lock and key for centuries.”</p><p>That sounded promising. Dean glanced around the room, wondering if it was in one of the trunks or on the bookshelves. “Great! Where is it?”</p><p>“Lost,” Sam said, immediately causing Dean’s hope to crash downward. “After the Men of Letters went defunct, the Book disappeared.”</p><p>Why couldn’t anything be easy? The longer Cas stayed dead, the harder it would be to bring him back. Dean wanted to move fast. “So, what, now we gotta find it?”</p><p>Bobby leaned in closer to the desk. “No. Lucky for you, I already know where it is. Me and Rufus tracked it down a few years back.”</p><p>Dean could kiss him. He shared a look with Sam. Sam’s eyes were glum. Dean’s were sparkling. He turned back to Bobby. “Where is it?”</p><p>“Here in Massachusetts. It was brought back stateside recently. There’s a witch in Amherst who’s got it.”</p><p>Dean froze, his mind blanking. The words tumbled around his head. Slowly, they started to make sense.</p><p>“Goes by the name of Rowena MacLeod,” Bobby finished.</p><p>“<em>Rowena</em>?” Dean echoed, gaping. He remembered the old book he’d seen Rowena use at the manor, the one she had in her tent in town. The answer had been right in front of his face this whole time.</p><p>“You know her?” Sam asked.</p><p>Dean gave a dry laugh. “Oh, we’ve met.” He shifted his attention back to Bobby. “How the hell did she get her hands on it?”</p><p>“Beats me,” Bobby said with a shrug. “She’s more powerful than she looks. Smarter, too. And <em>older</em>.”</p><p>“How old?” Dean asked, hearing Sam ask the same question, their voices overlapping.</p><p>“Earliest record I can find of her dates back to the days of Salem,” Bobby told them. Dean’s brows shot up, waiting for an explanation. “She found a way to make herself immortal. Can’t be killed by anything.”</p><p>Dean could practically feel the tension and concern coming off Sam in waves, but Dean was downright giddy. If Rowena was that old, and she knew how to cheat death, <em>and</em> she had the Book of the Damned—she was exactly the person Dean needed. “Great! What are we waiting for? Let’s go talk to the bitch.”</p><p>“Dean, hang on—” Sam tried, holding out his hand.</p><p>Bobby spoke at the same time: “What, you think you’re just gonna walk in and she’s gonna tell you what you need to know? Don’t be so sure.”</p><p>“I dunno,” Dean told him. “She seemed pretty scared of me when I told her who I was.”</p><p>“Well, that was a dumb thing to do,” Bobby griped with a roll of his eyes. “Now that she knows there’s a Man of Letters around, she’ll be ready for you.”</p><p>Dean’s enthusiasm waned. He hadn’t thought of that. He guessed he really didn’t have the element of surprise anymore. But it didn’t matter. He’d find a way to make her help.</p><p>“Bobby, was she one of the witches against us?” Sam asked.</p><p>“Yes and no,” Bobby answered. “She was no friend of Abaddon’s, but she wasn’t on our side, either. She’s always done what’s best for her. So, you go to see her for help, you best be prepared for anything. No telling what she’ll ask for in return.”</p><p>Dean let that information settle beneath his skin. It didn’t matter what Rowena asked for. He’d give anything.</p><p>“Thanks, Bobby,” he said.</p><p>Sam turned to him. Resolutely, he said, “I’m going with you.” Like Dean thought Sam would let him do otherwise.</p><p>Secretly, he was glad Sam was so intent on accompanying him to Amherst. If anyone could find a way to make sure both Dean and Cas lived, it was Sam. Maybe they had a shot at their second chance, after all.</p><p>“Yeah, yeah,” Dean said, waving it away. He asked Bobby, “Anything else we need to know?”</p><p>“An Encyclopedia’s worth, you idjit,” he answered dryly, and Dean pinched his lips in annoyance. “But, about this specifically? Not as far as I can tell.”</p><p>He stood up, fixing Dean with a stern look. But there was something underneath it—something vulnerable and full of care. Dean had seen it in Bobby’s eyes before, particularly after Bobby and John would fight whenever Dean or Sam got beat up badly on a hunt and needed somewhere to recover for a while. Bobby’s worn and rough hands had a tenderness to them whenever he’d nursed Dean back to health.</p><p>Dean steeled himself—though it was in a different way than he used to for his own father. With John, Dean saw a look like that and prepared himself for an order. With Bobby, Dean prepared himself for a plea.</p><p>“I mean it, Dean. Watch yourself,” Bobby told him. “You die for that boy, I’ll bring you back myself and kill you.”</p><p>Dean heard what that really meant beneath the surface. He wanted to tell Bobby not to worry. That he wanted to live. Except, he knew saying so would sound disingenuous and incomplete.</p><p>Dean didn’t want to just live.</p><p>He wanted to live with Cas.</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p> </p><p>They left for Amherst two days later. Dean had wanted to leave immediately, but Sam managed to talk him down, claiming he needed time to “prepare.” The day before they left, Sam spent most of his time with his nose in one of Bobby’s books until multiple precariously stacked piles formed around him. When he wasn’t doing that, he was going back and forth into town. Frequently, from Dean’s vantage point in the workshop where he tried to occupy his time, he saw the kid from the telegraph office knock on the door and hand Sam a message.</p><p>Dean figured Sam was desperately trying to find a solution to their problem that didn’t involve necromancy. It was a wild goose chase, but Dean allowed him to waste his time because at least Sam wasn’t trying to talk him out of the plan.</p><p>Apparently, Sam didn’t find anything, because they boarded the train to Amherst all the same. Their first stop was the row of psychic tents that usually popped up around the park, and Dean hoped they’d find Rowena there. She wasn’t present, but they asked around the other fortune tellers and palm readers to find out if anyone knew where she lived. Most of the time, they were told to go fuck themselves; but, eventually, they managed to bribe one of them into giving up a location.</p><p>They rented horses from the livery and rode out of town, following the psychic’s directions. It led them out to the foothills along the dense forest, where they would occasionally pass a farmhouse with grazing goats or cottages nestled together in twos and threes.</p><p>Rowena’s cottage rested about a mile away from anyone else’s. It sat right up against the tree line, and a wooden fence surrounded it. Dean gave a breath of anticipation when he saw smoke puffing out of the chimney, signifying she was home.</p><p>He urged his horse off the frozen dirt road, Sam following after him quickly.</p><p>“You’re sure you wanna do this?” Sam asked while they tied their horses to the fence.</p><p>Dean almost laughed, because it was a little late to turn back now. He was sure Rowena had already spotted them riding up. He made sure he had his gun tucked into his belt, even though he hoped he wouldn’t have to use it. Then, he shot Sam a look, silently communicating his determination.</p><p>Before Sam could respond, Dean heard the cottage’s front door open. Rowena stepped out, the trail of her midnight blue dress sweeping after her. She crossed her arms, staring at the two of them as if daring them to step onto her property.</p><p>It would take a lot more than that to scare Dean off. He walked to the entrance in the fence and toward the front door, holding his hands up in surrender as he did.</p><p>“We’re just here to talk.”</p><p>“Why would I want to talk to <em>you</em>, Mr. Wesson?” she asked darkly.</p><p>Dean dropped his hands, coming to a rest a few feet away from her. “Because I brought the more friendly brother,” he said, trying for a charming grin. He swiveled slightly to indicate Sam standing next him. “This is—”</p><p>“Samuel Wesson,” Rowena interrupted. “I know. What do you want?”</p><p>Dean clamped down on his jaw, knowing it was better to skip the pleasantries. “Castiel Novak is dead.”</p><p>He tried to keep his expression firm, to not let those words affect him.</p><p>Rowena uncrossed her arms, letting them hang at her sides. “I know that, too. I read about it in the paper. A <em>tragedy</em>.” The word choice wasn’t lost on Dean. A not-so-subtle <em>I told you so</em>.</p><p>“We’re here to bring him back,” Dean bit out.</p><p>Rowena’s eyes flashed with something—maybe surprise. It took a few long moments for her to process the information. When she did, she let out a laugh, like she didn’t think he was serious. “I’m sorry, <em>what</em>? You can’t be suggesting necromancy!”</p><p>Dean kept his face deadly serious. “That’s exactly what I’m suggesting.”</p><p>“Well, perhaps you haven’t heard, but necromancy is banned. I believe it was your lot who made that rule.” She pointed a finger at each of them in turn.</p><p>“Yeah, well, our <em>lot</em> is gone now,” Dean answered tersely. He turned slightly to Sam again. “We’re what’s left, and we say it’s alright.”</p><p>Rowena blinked at them, then shook her head. “No. Apologizes, gentlemen. I won’t be party to—to—whatever game you’re playing! Good day.” She turned around swiftly and moved back into the house.</p><p>Dean shot Sam a look. Sam let out a heavy breath, defeated. He looked pretty relieved. But Dean didn’t come all that way to give up so easily. He stormed toward the door and shoved inside.</p><p>The front room was small, but elegantly decorated with the finest rugs and art. Bookshelves lined with thick tomes were pushed against the wall, and incense plumed from bowls of herbs on every flat surface. There was a table in the center of it all. Rowena stood before it, looking like she’d expected to be followed.</p><p>“Get out of here! I won’t help!” she yelled, more agitated than angry. She must have known it was futile.</p><p>“Just hear us out,” Sam tried.</p><p>Rowena sat down at the table, crossing her legs and folding her hands atop her knee. “Even if it <em>wanted</em> to help, what makes you think I could?”</p><p>“We know you’re a lot older than you look,” Dean shot back. “And I’m willing to bet you’ve done these kinds of rituals before.”</p><p>Rowena looked downward briefly, collecting herself. “Not in a long time,” she admitted.</p><p>Dean didn’t let it hinder him. “And we know you got the Book of the Damned.”</p><p>To that, Rowena bristled defensive. Dean glanced around the room, wondering where the Book was. If Rowena usually carried it around with her for safekeeping, he figured it was probably hidden when she was at home.</p><p>But it didn’t matter if he knew where it was, as long as she had it.</p><p>He stepped forward, trying to look as beseeching as possible. “There’s a spell in it—the same one my Dad tried using. But he thought it was enough to get him to the brink of death for it to work.” He braced himself, knowing Sam was still listening intently. “We can do that on <em>me</em>.”</p><p>As predicted, Sam jolted slightly. “What? Dean, hang on—”</p><p>Dean ignored him, keeping his eyes solely on Rowena. He wasn’t above begging. “Help us. Please.”</p><p>Rowena stared back, and for a single moment it looked like she’d say yes. And then: “No.”</p><p>Dean ground his teeth.</p><p>“These are forces that shouldn’t be toyed with. I won’t do it,” she said with more conviction than before. She swiped her hands through the air.</p><p>Dean couldn’t understand her reluctance. She was a witch. What was the point in having the Book of the Damned all this time if she didn’t want to use it, especially without consequences? He was giving her a free pass. “What do you want? Money?”</p><p>“It isn’t about <em>money</em>! I tried to warn you. I <em>told</em> you about the signs I’d seen leading to tragedy, and you didn’t listen. I won’t help you correct your mistake.”</p><p>“Cas is <em>dead</em>!” Dean burst out, more emotion in his voice than he’d intended.</p><p>“A shame,” Rowena answered coldly. “But all lives end eventually.”</p><p>No. Dean wouldn’t accept that. Fury coursed through him, making him rip his gun out of his belt and point it toward her.</p><p>“Dean! Calm down!” Sam bellowed, grabbing Dean’s arm and trying to force it down. Dean fought against it, keeping his gun lifted.</p><p>Rowena didn’t seem threatened. “Go ahead. You very well know it won’t kill me.”</p><p>Dean’s anger was waning, turning to ice in his gut. He felt like something was choking the life out of him. He took a good look at Rowena, and there was some too defensive about her. There was a reason she wasn’t helping him.</p><p>His gun suddenly felt too heavy in his hand. He dropped his arm.</p><p>“What are you so scared of?”</p><p>At once, Rowena’s face went stormy. “Get out,” she said again, tone harder than before.</p><p>And Dean knew she meant it. But how could he just give up? There had to be a way. He considered stealing the Book of the Damned, but then he wouldn’t have a witch to perform the ritual. She was his only hope.</p><p>“<em>Now</em>!”</p><p>Dean sucked in a breath, not knowing what to do. It got stuck in his throat, unable to get past the constriction.</p><p>Cas was dead. Dean failed.</p><p>He couldn’t be there. He couldn’t even look at her.</p><p>Before he even made a conscious decision to do so, he turned around and pushed out the door.</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p> </p><p>Dean rode straight to the nearest place that served alcohol in town. It was a dumpy saloon on the outskirts of Amherst, practically a roadhouse judging by the clientele. When he answered, everyone glanced up from their drinks, card games, and sorrows to shoot him a wary look. Dean barely even glanced back as he made his way to the bar.</p><p>Outside, he heard the ferocious stampede of Sam’s horse come to a stop. Moments later, Sam barreled through the door, earning himself a few more assessing glares.</p><p>“Dean, what the hell?” Sam hissed when he caught up, trying to keep his voice down.</p><p>Dean ignored him and gestured for the bartender for a whiskey. The man came over with a bottle and glass that Dean knew would probably just be for pretense. He’d chug the whiskey straight from the jar if Sam weren’t around. “I’ll take the bottle,” he said, tossing down more than enough money on the counter.</p><p>He swiped up the glass and bottle and headed for an empty table in the back corner. On his way, he swallowed the burning liquor in the glass in one mouthful and sloshed in more to replace it.</p><p>“Dean—” Sam nagged, still on his heels.</p><p>Dean didn’t know why he was so perturbed. After all, Sam had gotten what he wanted: for Dean to give up on finding a way to bring back Cas.</p><p>He sat down in a chair and knocked back more of his drink. It passed through his chest, leaving a trail of fire in the otherwise cold, desolate space.</p><p>Sam sighed. He kicked out the opposite chair and sat down. For a long while, he didn’t say anything, and Dean wanted to keep it that way. He was pretty content not to do any talking himself. He’d rather drink—bringing on either a forgetful, numb stupor or a seething rage that chastised him for failing. For failing Cas. Again.</p><p>It felt like losing him twice.</p><p>Dean drank again to wash down the pain. Too bad, it could float.</p><p>Sam gave another breath, sounding wearier this time. He ran his hand through his hair and fixed Dean with a withering look. “Dean. What are you doing?”</p><p>“What does it look like?” Dean shot back, voice flat and scratched. His throat felt raw. All of him felt raw.</p><p>He took another drink, and finally his thoughts began to spin on their axis. But they still revolved around Cas.</p><p>“I’m not gonna watch you do this to yourself again,” Sam said, his hazel eyes tracking the glass. “I thought we were past this.”</p><p>Dean scoffed. He was <em>past it</em> when he thought there was hope. Now, he knew there wasn’t. “What d’you want from me? You heard Rowena. She’s not gonna help us.”</p><p>Sam nodded, mouth pinched. “I know. But maybe… Maybe it’s better this way.”</p><p>“Better for who?”</p><p>“For <em>you</em>.”</p><p>Dean rolled his eyes and took another drink, slower this time, savoring it. It gave him something to do other than listen to Sam.</p><p>“I mean… Dean, you <em>promised</em> we were just here to talk about options—see if there was another way than what Dad did. And then we get here, and all of a sudden you’re talking about practically sacrificing yourself?”</p><p>That was a little dramatic. It’s not like Dean <em>wanted</em> to die, but he would if it meant Cas could live. He leaned into the table, reminding himself to keep his voice down, even if no one was paying them any attention. “What, you thought I was gonna bleed an innocent person?”</p><p>“I don’t know anything with how crazy you’ve been acting lately.”</p><p>Dean glowered, offended. “Well, gee, thanks for the vote of confidence.”</p><p>“No, I just—” Sam grunted, and then rattled his head in an attempt to marshal his thoughts. His features shifted from pissed off to stern. He held out a firm hand over the table, leveling with Dean. “You’ve been obsessed. You <em>know</em> who you sound like, right?”</p><p>Dean bit down on his jaw, expression shuttering. Something inside of him wanted to defend their father, no matter what he’d felt on the subject for the majority of his life. But that wasn’t the reason he swallowed another mouthful of whiskey and muttered, “Yeah, well, maybe he was right.”</p><p>Sam’s shoulders drooped, forlorn.</p><p>“He couldn’t protect Mom,” Dean said. Honestly, he understood now. He understood his father, and he wished he didn’t. But it’s not like Dean had any kids to take care of. He was alone. “I couldn’t protect—” He couldn’t even say it.</p><p>Cas had been alone, too.</p><p>Dean had left him.</p><p>He wanted to smash the bottle against the wall, to get his knuckles bloody. Or, no. He wanted to cry. Burning. There was burning in his face—behind his eyes.</p><p>Cas was dead and there was nothing Dean could do about it.</p><p>“So, your solution was to kill yourself for him?” Sam asked, shaking his head. “What about me?”</p><p>Dean didn’t know if it was the whiskey or the emotion, but he had no idea what Sam meant by that. “What? You need me to <em>protect</em> you?” Dean scoffed. As much as he wanted that to be true, he knew it wasn’t. It hadn’t been for a long time. They weren’t hunting anymore; and they weren’t at war. Dean had no idea how to live like that, but Sam did. Sam was the actual functioning member of society and Dean was only going to bring him down. It’d happen sooner or later.</p><p>“From what?” Dean demanded bitterly. “All the witches we hunted are dead, remember? There’s no threat anymore. You’re done with school and you’re a lawyer now. You don’t need me.” The words cut deep, driving through the center of him. He thought they’d only hit scar tissue, but apparently there was still something in him left to wound.</p><p>To hell with it. Dean didn’t care if he destroyed himself.</p><p>But Sam’s eyes were flinty. “You think that’s why I keep you around?” he said, voice tight. “Dean, you’re my <em>brother</em>. What would I do if you—” He cut himself off with a breath and tore his eyes away.</p><p>Dean studied him for a long time, sobering marginally. Guilt bobbed to the surface next to pain, swirling around together. He clutched his glass tighter. “Sam, I already feel like hell,” he said. He just wanted this conversation to stop. He wanted everything to stop. “Why are we even talking about this, anyway? It’s not gonna happen. We don’t have the Book of the Damned and we don’t have a necromancer. You got your wish.” He knocked back his drink, keeping eye contact.</p><p>Sam’s face went taut. “My <em>wish</em>? What’s that, Dean? For you to be miserable? To watch you drink yourself to death?”</p><p>“I don’t have another option!”</p><p>He hadn’t meant to shout. At first, he didn’t even know he had. Not until the rest of the room went hushed and he noticed the stares he’d attracted. Dean looked down in shame, his heart slamming against his ribs.</p><p>He hadn’t meant to say that. He shouldn’t have.</p><p>Long after conversation filtered back into the room, Sam remained quiet. His eyes were weights on Dean—searching him, something like clarity suddenly in them. Something like despair.</p><p>“This isn’t about not being able to protect him,” Sam said slowly. “It’s not about guilt.”</p><p>Dean’s vision was becoming watery. He tried to blink the tears away, but he couldn’t. Two dropped from his eyes, spotting the table. They were too hot on his cheeks. He should have been embarrassed. He was too tired to keep them inside.</p><p>“You don’t want to live without him.” Sam breathed out heavily. His voice was a little thicker when he continued: “That’s why… even before he died, you… You gave up. Like Dad did.”</p><p>Dean sniffed, trying to get a hold of himself. He pressed his mouth closed tightly, afraid that if he didn’t, something might spill out. His stomach hurt, and he didn’t know if that was from the whiskey or the emotion, either.</p><p>Sam shook his head, something fierce suddenly flashing in his eyes. “I’m not letting you do that,” he said, the sternness in his voice returning. Something about it made Dean swiftly lift his head to look at him. Sam pulled his shoulders back and stabbed a finger into the table. “You’re not gonna wallow, Dean. You’re gonna fight.”</p><p>Dean had no idea what he was saying. Suddenly, he wished he was sober. “What?”</p><p>Sam stood up, his chair scraping against the floor as he did. He swiped up Dean’s empty glass and pocketed it. “Come with me. Leave the bottle.” Without so much as an explanation, he turned stiffly and walked toward the exit.</p><p>Dean blinked after each single-minded step. The change in Sam’s demeanor felt like a slap to the face. He could feel the effects of the alcohol draining away, but not fast enough. “Where are you going?” he called.</p><p>Sam didn’t answer. He pushed out the door.</p><p>Dean realized he better hurry up and follow. He jumped out of his seat and rushed after his brother.</p><p>Outside, Sam was already swinging into his horse’s saddle. Dean scurried to follow suit. By the time he was astride, Sam’s horse was already kicking up dust, going so fast, the pedestrians on the street had to move out of the way. Dean urged his mount after him as quickly as he could.</p><p>It didn’t take long for him to realize they were riding back toward Rowena’s cottage. Sam kept pace as if something were chasing them, and he didn’t let up until they’d arrived at their destination. He slid off his saddle, then pulled his six-shooter out from his belt and checked to ensure it was loaded.</p><p>Dean jumped down from his horse and started reining the animals to the fence. “What’s the plan?”</p><p>Sam only said, “Follow my lead.” There was fire in his words—and in his footfalls as he stomped toward the door.</p><p>Panic went through Dean, realizing that Sam was about to do something stupid. “Sam! Sammy! <em>Dammit</em>,” he called as loud as he dared so close to the cottage. He quickly finished tying up the horses and scrambled after Sam. On the way, he figured it was probably a good idea to have his gun at the ready, too.</p><p>At the door, Sam shot him a determined look. He tensed his shoulders, preparing himself for a fight. Dean <em>really</em> wished he were more sober.</p><p>He watched Sam step back and kick in the door, causing a loud crack to sound among a spray of splinters. He didn’t think, then. He followed Sam inside, his gun held up.</p><p>Inside, Rowena jumped up from her chair, face aghast. “How dare—” she began yelling, her words cut off by a bang from Sam’s gun. Rowena went down, falling back into her chair. At first, Dean thought she was dead, but Sam had only winged her. Blood pooled through the cracks in her fingers as she clutched her shoulder.</p><p>Her eyes were wide, face white. Sam’s face was merciless.</p><p>He took out the glass he’d stolen from the saloon and moved forward. When he got to her, Sam ripped Rowena’s hand away from her shoulder and pressed the cup beneath the wound. Rowena gave a loud, anguished shout as Sam squeezed, filling the glass halfway with her blood.</p><p>Dean looked on, horrified.</p><p>“Stop!” Rowena gritted out, clawing at Sam’s shirt.</p><p>Sam extracted himself and turned away. He spoke an incantation over the cup, then held it aloft.</p><p>Dean didn’t like where this was going. His mind was screaming. His body was frozen.</p><p>Sam swallowed the blood in one go, knocking it back. He tossed the cup to the side, letting it smash against the wall.</p><p>Dean couldn’t breathe. He had the sickening thought that Sam had just made a deal with the devil for him.</p><p>“You stupid boy! Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” Rowena shouted.</p><p>“Yeah. I do,” Sam answered. There was blood stained on his lips, his teeth. “Before we came here, I did some digging into you. I spent the whole day sending telegrams back and forth with some of Dad’s old contacts. And I found out what spell you used to make yourself immortal.”</p><p>Dean thought about the research Sam had been doing before they left; he thought of all the telegrams that had arrived at Bobby’s house. He should have been paying more attention.</p><p>“You’re impervious to death by any weapon, magic or mortal,” Sam went on. He held up a finger. “With one loophole. Now, <em>I’m</em> the <em>only</em> person who can kill you.”</p><p>Rowena was panting heavily with barely concealed fear, still clutching her shoulder.</p><p>Understanding dawned over Dean. His mouth fell open as he stared at Sam. His stupid, genius little brother. Hope sprung in his chest, clogging his throat. Sam had done that for him. For Cas. Because he’d rather see Dean go down fighting for a chance at happiness than to watch him waste away.</p><p>Dean didn’t know what he felt more of: gratitude, remorse, or relief.</p><p>Sam drew his gun again, pointing it menacingly at Rowena. “Help us. Or you die.” He clicked back the hammer of his gun to show he meant business.</p><p>For a long moment, silence hung, filled only by Rowena breathing and Dean trying his damnedest to breathe. Sam and Rowena glared at each other, a stalemate.</p><p>Then, Rowena climbed to her feet, grunting with pain. She lifted her hand from her shoulder and looked at the blood. Knowing she was bested, she stood up straighter and tried to compose herself as best as she could. “Well. Aren’t you clever?” she said, and there might have even been admiration in her tone. “Finally! There are the Wesson brothers I’ve heard talk of all these years. I respect your ruthlessness, Samuel. Well done.”</p><p>The compliment made Dean’s stomach sour slightly. Sam seemed pretty apathetic toward it. He said, “So, you’ll help?”</p><p>“I suppose you haven’t given me a choice,” Rowena admitted. “Though, do you mind if I patch myself up first? If you recall, I’ve just been shot.”</p><p>Dean and Sam kept their guns pointed at her while they shared a look. She could have been trying to trick them, but they really didn’t have much of a choice other than to trust her. Deciding they had the upper hand, they lowered their weapons.</p><p>“Fine,” Sam said, voice curt. “Make it quick.”</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p> </p><p>While Rowena cleaned up her wound, Dean and Sam waited in her front room. Dean sipped on a steaming mug of fresh coffee in an attempt to clear his mind of any remaining alcohol. He made himself at home in the chair next to the crackling fire. While he sat, his eyes tracked Sam, who’d thankfully cleaned the blood from his mouth, as he flipped through one of the books from Rowena’s shelf.</p><p>Now that the shock died down, Dean had to admit that what Sam had done to ensure Rowena’s cooperation was pretty awesome. But it also made him shit scared. If that spell had any side effects, Dean wouldn’t forgive himself. The last thing he wanted was to put Sam in danger.</p><p>“And you’re <em>sure</em> it’s not gonna come bite us in the ass?” Dean asked for what must have been the tenth time.</p><p>Sam’s eyes flickered up from the book. He closed it and set it back on the shelf. “No, Dean. I told you—the spell makes her the target, not me.”</p><p>Dean leaned forward, pulling his mouth down thoughtfully. “Yeah, well, you ever consider the fact that, since you’re the only one who could kill her, she could just kill you first?”</p><p>Sam snorted a laugh, like something was funny. “The thought crossed my mind.”</p><p>Popping his brows, Dean deadpanned, “It crossed your mind?”</p><p>Sam shrugged innocently, and Dean guessed he couldn’t chastise him for being so stupid considering the fact that they were only there because Dean was being stupid. Even if he wanted to, Rowena brisked back into the room. She wore a fresh, clean dress, and carried herself like she hadn’t just been shot in the shoulder. A weighty antique book was held between her hands, and Dean figured that must have been the Book of the Damned.</p><p>“That was fast,” Dean said, sitting straight again.</p><p>“It’s called magic, Mr. Wesson,” Rowena told him like she was explaining the alphabet to a two-year-old. Dean rolled his eyes.</p><p>“Is that it?” Sam asked while Rowena set the Book down on the table. He drifted closer, peering down at it. Dean stood up and joined them.</p><p>“Yes, this is it,” Rowena confirmed. She sat down primly at the table. Sam pulled out a chair and sat across from her.</p><p>Dean remained standing. “How’d you get it, anyway?”</p><p>“Without any Men of Letters left to guard it?” she chuckled. “Don’t insult me. It was easy, given the opportunity.”</p><p>“So, you stole it?”</p><p>“I <em>liberated</em> it,” she corrected. “And you’re fortunate I did. Do you want Castiel back or not?”</p><p>Dean couldn’t really argue. He grabbed the chair next to Sam and ripped it out from under the table, sitting in it. “Okay. Talk. How d’we bring him back?”</p><p>Rowena opened the Book of Damned—and Dean found himself tensing slightly, like he expected it to release some kind of curse on them. It didn’t. She delicately flipped through the yellowing pages, and he caught glimpses of black ink and colorful depictions. At last, she gave a sound of triumph and said, “Here we are! This is the spell your father used—with some modifications, of course.”</p><p>Dean leaned in, scanning the page. The spell was in Latin, and he recognized the sigils drawn there. They’d been painted on the charred floor of his home in Lawrence when John attempted the ritual. He tried not to think about his father laying on them, blood pooling around him, his screams faded but still echoing through Dean’s head.</p><p>“He didn’t use a sacrifice,” Sam said.</p><p>“Correct.”</p><p>“And you think that could work?” Dean asked. The constriction around his neck was tightening. He was starting to feel a little dizzy now that he was actually looking at the instructions for the spell. He tried swallowing it down, reminding himself this was for Cas.</p><p>“Perhaps,” Rowena told him carefully. She folded her hands together on the table. “You see, necromancy isn’t so much an art as it is a <em>science</em>—a very precise one at that. While most magic creates, necromancy transfers. That’s why a sacrifice is required in most cases: it transfers one person’s life force to another’s.”</p><p>Dean glanced down at the page again, wondering just how close to death he’d have to come in order to trick the forces of the universe into giving him Cas back.</p><p>And then Rowena continued, “But, in order for the ritual to fully be successful, something else is needed. Something that wasn’t always present during a ritual, which is why so many of them brought back shades or a mindless shell. Necromancy requires a connection between the living and the dead.”</p><p>“A connection?” Dean echoed, his eyes flashing to Sam to see if he was following. Sam looked just as lost.</p><p>“Yes,” said Rowena. “Your parents loved each other, yes?”</p><p>Dean shrugged, shaking his head quickly. “Yeah?” He didn’t know why it felt like a personal question.</p><p>“Well, <em>love</em> is the strongest form of connection. That’s why, in theory, your father believed he could forgo the sacrifice by only bringing himself close to death, and then his connection to your mother would complete the energy needed for the ritual.”</p><p>Dean blinked, understanding dawning over him.</p><p>“That’s why Cas had to get married,” Sam breathed out, figuring it out for himself.</p><p>It made Rowena sit up a little straighter. “Pardon?”</p><p>Shit. Dean almost didn’t want to tell her—but he knew she had to know. Since they got to Amherst, he’d been gritting his teeth and hoping that the curse Abaddon put on Cas would somehow make it easier to bring him back from the dead. He knew it was a fool’s hope, and it’d probably make it harder. But it was nice to pretend.</p><p>He and Sam shared a glance, silently deciding that Dean would explain.</p><p>Drawing in a steadying breath, he said, “Cas… he’s not just dead now. He kinda always was.” Rowena’s eyes widened, and she turned her face slightly to listen to him. He deflated with a sigh, trying not to be annoyed that he had to go on. “When he was a baby, he died. Chuck Novak and the butler, Zachariah, hired Abaddon to bring him back.”</p><p>“Abaddon?” Rowena gasped.</p><p>“Yeah. Well, she brought him back—but not fully. He only had as many years to live as the person whose life they traded his for. His mother’s. But, if Cas got married before that time came due, he’d become fully alive.”</p><p>“We think he was a revenant of some kind,” Sam added.</p><p>Rowena sat back in her chair, looking like she needed a drink. Dean could relate.</p><p>“So, does that make this easier or harder?” he prompted.</p><p>Rowena scoffed, her eyes flickering back and forth in thought. “My guess is <em>harder</em>, but I can’t say anything like bringing the <em>living dead</em> back to life has been attempted before!” she admonished.</p><p>Of course. That was just Dean’s luck.</p><p>Rowena gave another breath, like she’d just realized something. “The last time I saw Castiel… There was this energy, or… <em>lack</em> of energy… It’s hard to explain but there was…” She let herself trail off. Dean knitted his brows together, something cold creeping into his gut. She looked afraid. And he thought, maybe, that’s why she’d refused to help them in the first place.</p><p>Clearing her throat, Rowena lifted her chin to compose himself. “I saw him in town once, when he was being fitted for his wedding suit. He looked different. Paler. Thin. Sick, almost. You weren’t around.”</p><p>Dean threw up his hands, anger flashing. Cas had never told him about that. “I thought I told you to stay away from him!”</p><p>She shot him a look, and he decided it wasn’t worth it. “I was in Boston for a couple months. So?”</p><p>“<em>So</em>,” Rowena said, “I believe you’re right about Castiel being a revenant. But you’ll recall what I just said about connections? When you returned from Boston, did he get better?”</p><p>Dean thought back to when he returned to the manor. Cas had been paler and thinner than normal, but it had been winter. He was fine once he got a little sun. “It was spring.”</p><p>“Answer the question,” she snipped.</p><p>A rush went through Dean, and he didn’t know if it was panic or annoyance. “Yeah! Yeah, I guess.”</p><p>“Well, that’s good! That’s proof of yours and Castiel’s connection.”</p><p>The words stopped Dean in his tracks. He opened and closed his mouth a few times, floundering. “You…” He looked at Sam again, just to make sure he was on the right track. “You’re saying <em>I’ve</em> been bringing him to life?”</p><p>Rowena nodded.</p><p>“But we weren’t married!”</p><p>He left. He left for no reason. He’d been the one who’d brought Cas to life, and then he abandoned him. Suddenly, it was too hard to find air.</p><p>“I don’t know what spell Abaddon used,” Rowena considered. “Do you know what, exactly, she told Mr. Novak and the butler?”</p><p>Dean was still reeling. He barely processed the question until Sam gently touched his wrist. Voice soft and eyes concerned, Sam asked, “Dean?”</p><p>Dean tried to control himself. He told himself he’d make it right. He’d get Cas back.</p><p>“It was…” He shook his head, trying to remember what Zachariah had said. “Something about Cas being joined with the person he loves.”</p><p>Rowena seemed to mull it over. “<em>Joined</em> doesn’t necessarily mean <em>married</em>. It’s possible it could be any number of things. For instance, this ritual will join you and Castiel if it works.”</p><p>Dean’s attention returned to her fully. “It will?”</p><p>“Like a soul binding?” Sam asked.</p><p>They’d looked for soul binding spells originally, before Cas died. They’d hoped it would be able to bring him fully to life, but, as far as Dean knew, there wasn’t one applicable to their situation. Soul binding spells joined two people’s life forces, but they both had to be alive first.</p><p>“In a way,” Rowena said. “The spell borrows energy from Dean’s soul and gives it to Castiel. But, because the two of them are already connected, they’ll share the energy between them. It’s much more permanent than marriage.”</p><p>Dean nodded. He thought he understood what that meant. Even if it didn’t, it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that it worked.</p><p>“But this is all this hypothetical without a sacrifice?” Sam checked.</p><p>Rowena nodded. “Yes. Of course, we could make it much easier by finding a victim and—”</p><p>“<em>No</em>!” Dean and Sam yelled in unison. It just reminded Dean who they were dealing with.</p><p>Rowena held up her palms in surrender. “I’m just <em>saying</em>! But, fine, since you’re both too <em>good</em> for that… No, I can’t make any guarantees. Castiel may not come back. Or Dean <em>could</em> die. I can get him to the brink of death, but I can’t bring him back from it. He may never heal.”</p><p>Dean glanced toward Sam, finding his brother’s eyes already on him. They held each other’s gaze. Something in Sam was still begging Dean not to do it, and something inside of Dean wanted to listen. To have Sam stop him. But he couldn’t. This was their one shot to get Cas back, and Dean had to take it. What did it matter if he died in a failed ritual? At least, then, it’d be a quick death. Without Cas, it’d be slow. Sam knew that. Otherwise, they wouldn’t be here.</p><p>“I just want that to be loud and clear, now that my life is on the line, as well,” Rowena finished, shooting a glare at Sam. “I’ll do my best to make sure everything goes perfectly, but you need to accept the risks, Mr. Wesson. Both of you do.”</p><p>Dean broke away from Sam’s eyes, focusing on Rowena. He steeled himself, making up his mind. Forcing an airy smirk, he said, “Well, what could possibly go wrong?”</p><p>Next to him, Sam took in a deep, steadying breath. He nodded. “Okay. But no tricks. If he dies, and I find out you did it on purpose—”</p><p>Rowena held up her hand to stop him. “Relax, Samuel. I won’t gamble with my own well-being. If you don’t trust <em>me</em>, trust <em>that</em>.”</p><p>Sam settled, the darkness fading from his face. He nodded again.</p><p>“Good,” Rowena said, closing the Book of the Damned. “To better our chances, we need to perform the ritual at the Novaks’ estate. It’s where Castiel died. If there’s anything left of his presence there, it will help our purposes. And I’ve heard the manor is now abandoned, so I doubt we’ll be interrupted. Meet me there tonight—before midnight.”</p><p>“Okay,” Dean said, standing up. It was harder to do than it should have been. He could feel some invisible force pressing down on his shoulders. It wasn’t a new sensation. Neither was the pulsing of his heart that seemed to keep time, counting down the seconds until they eventually ran out.</p><p>He’d felt it all before. And he’d survived it. He’d survive it again.</p><p>“Let’s go, Sam.”</p><p>Sam stood up, too, and followed Dean out of the cottage.</p><p>“I don’t trust her,” Sam said on the way to their horses.</p><p>Dean scoffed. “And I do? But you heard her, Sam. She’s not gonna risk pissing you off now that you can kill her.”</p><p>Dean untied his horse’s reins from the fence, aware of Sam’s eyes on him.</p><p>“You’re <em>sure</em> about this, Dean?” Sam asked. Dean had been waiting for that question to rear its head again. Sam lasted longer than he thought he would.</p><p>And the answer was no. Dean wasn’t sure of anything—except that he needed Cas back. He felt hollow without him, like there was a piece of him missing. He didn’t know if that was in his head or if it was their <em>connection</em>, but he couldn’t go on feeling like that.</p><p>“It’s okay, Sam,” he said, turning fully toward his brother. Shifting the reins to one hand, he clapped his free hand on Sam’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. He offered a smile that he hoped looked reassuring. “I’m not planning on dying tonight.”</p><p>He didn’t mention that, whether he planned on it or not, it could still happen. Sam didn’t mention it, either.</p><p>Sam’s throat clicked when he swallowed. Still, he nodded, solemnly accepting the answer. Turning away, he began untying his own horse’s reins.</p><p>Dean swung into the saddle, trying to keep his mind occupied. He told himself that, in just a few hours, he’d have Cas back. All the fear and uncertainty would be forgotten, and whatever pain he had to endure for the ritual to work would be worth it.</p><p>He looked down at his hands, imagining a million bleeding cuts across them. Screams echoed in his head.</p><p>It’d be worth it. For Cas.</p><p>For the first time, there was hope. Dean could feel it sitting in his chest next to the fear. He hoped. He hoped the spell would work.</p><p>And, more than anything, he hoped that, before he died, Cas didn’t hate Dean enough for leaving that he stopped loving him.</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p> </p><p>Now that they were back at the manor, the gravity of what Dean was about to do was starting to feel like a crushing boulder on his chest.</p><p>Dean sat on the staircase in the entrance foyer, watching as Sam and Rowena set up the altar. Sam was on the floor, painting the same sigil Dean remembered from their father’s ritual on the carpet. Rowena went around lighting candles and placing poultices in strategic locations.</p><p>After they’d first broken into the house, the brothers had followed Rowena through every goddamn room while she waved a crystal around and let out “hmm” sounds of varying levels of disappointment and perplexity. When they reached Cas’ bedroom, Dean couldn’t stand being left in the dark anymore, and he asked what was going on.</p><p>Apparently, Rowena couldn’t sense Cas’ presence anywhere in the house. That, because it’s where he’d spent his life and where he died, he should have left some kind of energy marking behind. Dean tried not to throw up, because he could have told her that before they wasted their time.</p><p>Cas was gone. Dean couldn’t feel him anymore.</p><p>But now he had confirmation that Cas was <em>really</em> gone. The only explanation Rowena could come up with was that Cas had been a revenant instead of truly alive, so there was nothing left to linger. But she didn’t seem too confident about it.</p><p>Dean did his best to accept the answer, but it sat in his stomach like lead. Bile swam around it, burning higher and higher up his throat with every passing second. He could practically feel the razor point of a knife hovering next to his skin. The hairs on his arm stood up in response to it; the ticking of his heart sped up, like it was trying to fit a lifetime of beats into an hour.</p><p>From his place on the stairs, Dean kept alternating between grinding his teeth and chewing a hole into his cheek until he tasted metal. He tried not to look at the portrait of Chuck Novak over the fireplace—or at the base of the hearth, where Zachariah had bled out.</p><p>Instead, his eyes rested on the downstairs hallway of the east wing. It was full of shadows now—empty and cold. But he remembered the sunlight filling it. If he imagined it hard enough, he could still hear the distance sound of piano music drifting toward him. A Nocturne.</p><p>Dean didn’t realize there was the barest of smiles on his face until Sam’s voice pulled him back into reality.</p><p>“Hey, Rowena?” Sam asked, sitting back on his heels. He transferred his paintbrush to his left hand and pushed his hair out of his face with his right. At his knees, the wet paint on the carpet glimmered in the candlelight. “I was thinking—Cas is buried on the grounds, right?”</p><p>“From what I’ve been told, yes,” Rowena said, not looking up as she broke herbs into a bowl with her fingers.</p><p>“Well, if his presence isn’t here, maybe we can kinda… force it?” Sam said. “This sigil is supposed to act like a beacon, right? So, if we put one over Cas’ grave, we may be able to channel the energy from his physical presence instead of a spiritual one. Do you think that’s worth a shot?”</p><p>Rowena looked up and frowned, seeming both thoughtful and impressed. “Well… I suppose so. Placing the sigil over his remains could amplify his connection to Dean. It certainly couldn’t hurt.”</p><p>That was good enough for Dean. He got to his feet before either of them could offer to go outside. “I’ll do it,” he said.</p><p>Both of them looked toward him. “You sure?” Sam asked.</p><p>Dean was more than sure. He couldn’t stand to be in that house—that <em>room</em> for another second. The eyes in Chuck’s portrait were staring down at him. Zachariah’s self-satisfied smile cut into him. It was way too stuffy and Dean needed air. He needed to <em>do something</em> other than just sit there and wait for either death or glory.</p><p>Besides, he didn’t want Rowena messing with Cas’ grave. He trusted Sam, but Dean would rather do it himself. If these were the last moments he’d get to spend with Cas, he wanted to get it right.</p><p>“I’m climbing the walls here. Put me to work,” Dean answered, forcing a laugh.</p><p>Sam didn’t appear humored. He nodded, eyes big and melancholy. “Okay. Here’s the sigil you need to draw.” He reached for the Book of the Damned, which he was referencing, on the carpet and turned it over. Dean paced toward him and looked down at the indicated sigil. Not that he needed to. No matter how intricate it was, he’d never forget it.</p><p>In his mind, his father was screaming. It sounded like he was in agony.</p><p>“You wanna take this with you?” Sam offered.</p><p>“No, I got it,” Dean said, tapping his temple. “You finish up with yours. I’ll be right back.”</p><p>He turned and made for the backdoor. The entire way out, he could feel Sam’s eyes following him.</p><p>Outside, the air was damp with chill. Dean let the door swing closed behind him. The grounds were laden with wintry silence. He let out a deflating breath, seeing it fog in front of his face. But the brief pause was all he allowed. He couldn’t let his fear and trepidation consume him.</p><p>“Okay,” he whispered to himself, and started toward the woods at the back of the property.</p><p>The snow had melted somewhat since Dean’s last trek toward the cemetery, leaving only frozen earth to crunch beneath his boots. The icy blades of grass bent around his footprint, and Dean tried not to consider that, if he died in the ritual, those imprints in the frost would outlive him.</p><p>Above, the moon was shrouded by dark clouds. A silver halo poked out every now and again, shining its milky light down on the earth. It illuminated Cas’ headstone beyond the iron fence. The snowdrops Dean had set at its base had wilted, their blossoms shriveled and stocks huddled in on themselves like a body frozen to death in the cold.</p><p>Dean stepped inside the cemetery, the gate creaking from the cold as he pushed it open. He stopped in front of Cas’ grave, taking a moment to stare down at it. At his sides, his fists tensed and flexed, and he wondered if Cas would be joining him above the dirt or if he’d be joining Cas below it.</p><p>Either way, at least they’d be together.</p><p>But Dean would much prefer it if they were alive.</p><p>“Cas,” he said, his breath puffing out of him in the frigid air. He had to stop to gulp down his emotion, hearing it go down hard. His temples were already pounding with pressure, his eyes stinging with unshed tears. His heart ticked the seconds away.</p><p>“I’m coming for you,” he said, trying again. “Now, I’m gonna get us halfway there, but you gotta help, okay? You better fight like hell to get back here, you hear me? I ain’t giving up on you.” He skewed his eyes shut, telling himself not to cry. He inhaled choppily. “Don’t give up on me.”</p><p>It felt like a prayer. He hoped, somehow, Cas could hear him.</p><p>His eyes fluttered open. The moon had passed out of the clouds, sending down enough cold light to see by. He knew he better get to work.</p><p><em>It’ll work</em>, he told himself.</p><p>“Alright,” he sniffed, and pulled out his pocket knife from his pocket. He walked around the grave. Crouching on the back side of the tombstone, he used the point of his knife to etch the sigil into the stone. Sparks flew from it occasionally, hissing in the night. The scraping of metal on rock echoed against the tree trunks.</p><p><em>It’ll work</em>.</p><p>Dean chipped away, carving deep, his knuckles frequently dragging against the stone and breaking skin. Small, thin trails of blood were left in their wake. He ignored the way the wounds stung. The pain was nothing compared to what he was about to do.</p><p><em>It’ll work</em>.</p><p>Something was clawing its way up his throat, threatening to break free. His eyes were burning. He bit down hard, twisting his lips to keep it inside. He felt the muscles in his face jump and spasm under the strain.</p><p><em>It’ll work</em>.</p><p>What if it didn’t? What if Cas stayed dead? What if Dean couldn’t save him? What if Dean died, too, and left Sam alone? What if it didn’t work?</p><p>What if Dean had stayed with Cas? What if he hadn’t left? What if they’d run away like they were supposed to?</p><p>What if they could never be together and it was all his fault?</p><p>The thing inside Dean’s throat sobbed out of him. He gasped in a desperate attempt to control it, but it was too late. It overcame him. Dean’s knuckle scraped against the stone again, hitting an already sensitive spot. His hand slipped, making him lose his balance. He caught himself against the top of the tombstone, gripping it tight. He closed his eyes, but it didn’t stop the hot tears from springing out and rolling down his cheeks. He couldn’t breathe.</p><p>Dean fisted his hand on top of the stone, not knowing if he should fight his emotion or let it out.</p><p>“Dean?”</p><p>Dean sucked in a breath, jerking his head up at the sound of his name spoken so soft and sorrowfully. Sam stood on the other side of the gate, hands in his pockets. Dean wiped at his face and sat back, trying to rid himself of all evidence of the burning tears. Shame prickled inside him. He didn’t want Sam to see him break down. He didn’t want Sam to doubt their plan.</p><p>The gate whined again as Sam walked through and paced toward Dean.</p><p>“Hey,” Dean said, cursing the fissure in his wet voice.</p><p>Sam didn’t mention it, but his mournful gaze remained on Dean. It wasn’t pitying; Dean knew Sam didn’t think any differently of him now that he’d seen him cry twice in one day. Actually, the weight of Sam’s eyes was warm and comforting. It bolstered Dean’s spirits. Dean looked up at him and offered a hazy smile.</p><p>Sam’s eyes lingered a moment longer before flashing to the back of Cas’ tombstone. “That looks good,” he said, and lowered himself to the dirt to sit next to Dean.</p><p>“Yeah?” Dean asked, feeling a little better.</p><p>Sam nodded. When he breathed out, the light of the moon hit the condensation around his face. “So, uh… Rowena’s just about ready.”</p><p>Fear cracked Dean’s chest open. He tried hard to stay calm, brave. He reminded himself that, without Cas, none of it mattered. “Now or never, then.”</p><p>“Yeah,” Sam said, hanging his head. And then, “Dean—”</p><p>“No,” Dean said, cutting him off immediately. He already knew what Sam wanted to say, and he wasn’t telling his little brother goodbye. “We’re not doing that.”</p><p>Sam breathed out shakily. He nodded downward, running his tongue across his teeth.</p><p>And Dean wondered if he shouldn’t have shut Sam down so quickly—because there were things Dean wanted to say to him, too. Things like, <em>you’ll be alright without me</em>. Like, <em>go to California, meet a girl, be happy</em>. Like, <em>raising you is the best thing I ever did</em>.</p><p>Sam already knew all of it.</p><p>But maybe there was one thing he didn’t know. One last request.</p><p>“But… You know what to do, right? If this thing goes south?”</p><p>He kept his eyes forward. Still, in his periphery, he saw Sam raise his head and wipe his eyes.</p><p>“Yeah,” Sam told him. “Burn your… burn your body. Go to one of the churches in the Men of Letters network to give you an official plot.”</p><p>Dean was glad he remembered. Sam would be able to find a Men of Letters contact at one of the churches in Boston. There were still a few old timers left around. They’d take care of it all, and make sure Dean had an official cause of death that no one would look twice at. Dean guessed he’d probably be one of the last Man of Letters to get that treatment, if not the very last.</p><p>“Right,” he said. “But, for my ashes, I mean.” He looked around the cemetery. It was a quiet place—peaceful. He could still feel the warmth of his tear tracks on his skin, but he felt himself smiling softly. In that moment, he <em>did</em> feel calm. He did feel brave. “Take ‘em here. Bury ‘em with Cas.”</p><p>It was all he really wanted, in the end.</p><p>Sam sniffled and nodded again. “You got it,” he said, voice rough and thick. He was trying so hard, and for a moment, Dean almost wanted to call the whole thing off just to ease Sam’s mind.</p><p>Instead, he climbed to his feet, brushing the dirt and frost off his pants. Sam stood up, too, but before he could do much of anything else, Dean grabbed him by the shoulder and hauled him into a hug. Sam let out a surprised sound before settling in, wrapping his arms around Dean. Dean fisted at the back of Sam’s jacket and closed his eyes tight, focusing hard on his brother.</p><p>It steadied him somewhat—reminded him who he was. He took care of the people he loved.</p><p><em>It’ll work</em>.</p><p>Dean pulled away, keeping his hands clapped to Sam’s shoulders and searched his face in the moonlight, taking him in. He hoped it wouldn’t be the last time. “I’m proud of you, Sammy,” Dean told him. He couldn’t help it.</p><p>Sam’s eyes were glistening, even though he tried for a weak smile. Dean patted him on the shoulder one last time before drawing back. When he did, Sam turned around quickly and paced away, rubbing furiously at his eyes. “<em>Ah</em>,” he grunted out. “We, uh… we better get inside.”</p><p>“Yeah,” Dean agreed. He looked back down at Cas’ headstone, just making sure the sigil was perfect. Everything needed to be perfect. Which made him think about the fence surrounding the cemetery. It was made of iron, a repellent against magic. If it was left up, it might counter the sigil’s energy.</p><p>Dean walked toward the fence and wrapped his hands around the bitingly cold metal. He gave it a shake, feeling it move around in the dirt. He and Sam should be able to rip it out and discard the iron somewhere deeper in the forest, away from Cas’ grave.</p><p>“Help me take this down first,” he said, beckoning Sam over.</p><p>Sam seemed to understand his thought process. He came over and gripped the bars. Together, they heaved.</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p> </p><p>The paint from the sigil was sticky on Dean’s naked back. He laid down on the carpet, striped down to everything but his trousers. Around him, the flickering candlelight cast a murky orange glow on the ornate ceiling before getting enveloped by darkness in the corners of the room. Inside, Dean’s heart thrashed so fiercely, he could hear it in his ears.</p><p><em>It’ll work</em>, he reminded himself. It had to.</p><p>“Are you ready?” Rowena asked. Dean lifted his head to look at her. She and Sam were standing before the stairs. A bowl, curls of delicate blue smoke lifting from inside it, was held between Sam’s hands. The Book of the Damned was open in Rowena’s arms.</p><p>Dean knew, if he said yes, there was a good chance he wouldn’t live to regret it. Even if he did, there’d be a long road to recovery ahead of him. But there was no turning back now.</p><p>He braced himself, knuckles going white as he squeezed his fists. “Do it.”</p><p>Sam’s expression hardened. Rowena pulled her mouth into a thin line and glanced at him. “Let’s begin,” she said.</p><p>She and Sam began chanting from the Book, their voices overlapping and lifting up to the ceiling. Dean realized his eyes were skewed closed. His breath was struggling to get out of him. He waited and waited to feel the pain of the phantom blade sink into his skin. Every animal instinct urged him to get up, to fight back. He tensed his muscles against it, staying himself.</p><p>And he kept waiting.</p><p>When nothing came, he blinked his eyes open. Maybe the ritual wasn’t working. Maybe Cas was gone for good…</p><p>And then, suddenly, he felt something slice into his forearm. He jolted at the unexpectedness of it, knowing he’d let his guard down. His eyes snapped toward his arm spread out beside him, at the slash in his skin. Sickly blood oozed from it, but Dean could hardly feel it from the shock.</p><p>A slash opened up on his opposite arm. He gritted his teeth against it, trying not to cry out. His head whipped around to look at it. The numbness was ebbing away, giving way to a stinging pain.</p><p>Another cut—this time on his chest. Dean dropped his head down to the carpet and bit back his shouts. He tried to take himself out of his body, to focus on something else. Something that would take the pain away.</p><p>Blue. He pictured a pair of blue eyes staring into his. Practically willed it into reality.</p><p>The image faltered when a slice went through the tender flesh of his belly. Blood was starting to pool on his skin—hot and sticky. He could feel it burning on his thighs, his sides, his collarbone. Behind his ear, on his cheek. Pain wrapped around him like a firebrand.</p><p>There was a feeling on his ribcage like the crack of a whip hitting its mark. Dean grunted again, telling himself not to scream. Scream like his father had screamed.</p><p>Fail like his father had failed.</p><p><em>It’ll work</em>.</p><p>Then, the fire licked at the sole of his bare foot, and Dean couldn’t hold it in. His shout echoed back to him. Sam and Rowena’s voices became louder. Dean was panting hard. His pulse was sending tremors through his body. He looked down at himself, becoming woozy from all the shimmering blood. He turned his eyes to his brother. Sam’s cheeks were wet, but he kept in chorus with Rowena.</p><p>When pain shot through him again, Dean closed his eyes tightly. The fire wrapped around his body, seeming to consume him faster and faster. It opened up his veins, burrowed inside of him until he could feel in his lungs, his throat. It flayed him from the outside in—and Dean could hear screaming.</p><p>It sounded like agony.</p><p>His heart was pounding desperately in his ears, all sense of it keeping time gone.</p><p>He closed his eyes tighter—tried so hard to think of blue.</p><p>A slice opened up on the small of his back, and he arched off the carpet, his body overwrought. He fisted his hands, trying not to writhe, but there were cuts on his palms, between his fingers.</p><p>It wanted it to stop. He <em>needed</em> it to stop!</p><p>Sobs racked their way up his chest, hot and bubbling. They mixed with the shouts.</p><p>Dean was starting to get light headed. His thoughts were crowded into the corner of his mind, climbing over each other for escape. He couldn’t focus on anything but the stinging, scorching, ripping and tearing agony.</p><p>His breath was leaving him. So was his fight. He clung to the pain, knowing it was the only thing that could drag him up from the depths—but his grip was weak. The sound of his heart in his ears echoed like a hollow drum as it slowed.</p><p>And then something shuddered through him. An electric pulse that stole his breath. Dean felt it start at his center and crackle like fireworks.</p><p>He ripped his eyes open.</p><p>He was met with a set of blue.</p><p>And, suddenly, the pain didn’t matter anymore.</p><p>Cas stood over him, face blank, eyes far away.</p><p>Dean’s breath was coming out in weak, wet, wheezing rattles. Every inhale hurt. His eyes were burning. All of him was burning.</p><p>“<em>Cas</em>,” he tried to eke out. He hardly heard it himself.</p><p>Sam and Rowena were still chanting. Why were they still chanting? Couldn’t they see Cas?</p><p><em>It worked</em>.</p><p>Cas blinked as if waking up from a dream, his features shifting. Coming alive. He glanced around; then, down at Dean. His eyes became stricken.</p><p><em>Dean</em>. His mouth formed the name, but Dean couldn’t hear his voice.</p><p>Dean gazed up at him deliriously. Numbness was beginning to take over his body again. It was warm, pleasant. Exhaustion kept him on the floor, but all he wanted was to jump up, to hold Cas. All he felt was joy. Peace.</p><p>“It worked.”</p><p>Sam and Rowena were still chanting.</p><p>Cas’ visage flickered like a candle catching a quick burst of wind. Slowly, he began kneeling beside Dean. He flickered again, and his movements sped up to an unnatural speed before he settled at Dean’s side.</p><p>Dean’s breath was rasping, broken. It felt like icepicks stabbing his insides.</p><p>The beat of his heart in his ears was so slow, he could count the long seconds between them.</p><p>He tried to lift his hand to touch Cas, but he only managed to get it a few inches off the floor before his muscles gave out.</p><p>But Cas was <em>there</em>. He was there. Dean could weep.</p><p><em>It worked</em>.</p><p>And it hurt. It hurt.</p><p>Cas’ eyes were pained as he looked Dean up and down. His gaze swept to meet Dean’s—big and blue. Hesitantly, he reached forward, his hand moving toward Dean’s shoulder.</p><p>Dean couldn’t breathe. The numbness was creeping into his mind, making the world blurred around him. He couldn’t speak.</p><p>“Dean,” Cas said mournfully. Dean heard him that time, but it sounded like it was coming from behind glass.</p><p>His touch connected to Dean’s shoulder. As soon as it did, the flames came back in full force. They liquified, slamming through Dean’s body with a fury. A loud scream tore from his raw throat. His eyes closed. His body thrashed. It hardly felt like he was in his own skin anymore.</p><p>He wanted to die. He wanted it to be over. Anything to stop the pain.</p><p>But, as quickly as it came, it <em>did</em> stop.</p><p>Dean fell back against the floor, unable to move. The adrenaline that had spiked inside of him dropped off, taking everything else with it.</p><p>“Dean! <em>Dean</em>!” That was Sam’s voice. He sounded panicked. Dean couldn’t remember why.</p><p>The chanting had stopped. So had the screams.</p><p>Dean thought he was being moved, hauled into his brother’s lap. He couldn’t be sure. He couldn’t feel much of anything at the moment.</p><p>“Dean! Can you hear me?”</p><p>Sam was holding his face, but it felt like there was a barrier between his touch and Dean’s skin.</p><p>With all the strength he had left, Dean fluttered his eyes halfway open. He couldn’t see Cas anymore. But Cas was there. He’d seen him.</p><p><em>It worked</em>, he tried to say. It came out in a raspy whisper, barely audible. On the heels of it, something thick and wet bubbled up his throat, burst through his lips. It tasted like iron. And then, he couldn’t say anything at all.</p><p><em>It worked</em>.</p><p>A weak smile pressed against the corners of his lips. Warmth washed over him, inviting him to sleep. Dean closed his eyes, succumbing to it. The light of the candles, the sound of Sam’s calls all drifted away like water in a stream.</p><p>He could no longer hear the ticking of his heart.</p><p><em>It worked</em>.</p><p>Dean thought of blue…</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>2020</strong>
</p><p>Dean’s eyes burst open. The first thing he saw was blue.</p><p>Cas was still lying before him, staring back with a stunned look on his face.</p><p>Slowly, everything else began filtering in—the weighty silence of the decrepit house, the smudged morning light coming through the broken window above. He’d woken up in the same spot he’d died in 150 years ago, when the roof was still whole and the carpet bright and devoid of dust and rot.</p><p>Dean’s heart was thumping in his chest.</p><p>He’d died. And now, staring at Cas, he felt reborn.</p><p>Dean breathed out. Cas breathed in.</p><p>“Dean?” Sam called from the side.</p><p>It distracted Dean, his pulse jumping. <em>Sam</em>. Sam was alive, too.</p><p>Dean put his palms under him and heaved himself up just enough to look at Sam rushing toward him. Sam dropped to his knees beside Dean and helped him sit up. Dean grunted, the phantom pain still just under his skin. He inspected his palms. They were clean of blood. It didn’t seem possible.</p><p>“Dean,” Sam said, laughter in his voice. Dean turned to the breathless, relieved smile on his brother’s face.</p><p>Grief curled low in Dean’s gut. He’d left Sam. His little brother. He’d left Sam all alone in the world when he’d died. How could he do that?</p><p>But Sam was still smiling at him like all was forgiven, and it finally sunk in that Dean was <em>alive</em>. He’d come back. <em>They’d</em> come back. And they were together again.</p><p>“Sammy,” Dean said, voice coming out hoarse. He brought his hand to Sam’s cheek, feeling it solid and warm beneath his touch. Sam’s precious smile grew. His eyes were glassy as they searched Dean’s face like he was inspecting for injury. Dean told him, “I’m good.”</p><p>Was he? He didn’t really know. He was still trying to process everything.</p><p>A shiver rocked his spine. His mind was turning too fast to grab hold of a single thought. His heart pounded.</p><p>His gaze strayed toward the staircase, finding Rowena looking back at him from a distance.</p><p>And then, his breath catching, he looked at Cas.</p><p>Cas lifted himself up to a seated position, and it looked like it took some effort. His brow was lined, sweat prickling in his hair. His eyes were still searching the room wildly. And then they settled on Dean, and he instantly calmed.</p><p>Dean put his hand to his own chest, feeling his heartbeat through his shirt. Tentatively, he reached his other hand toward Cas. He spread his palm over his heart. It thumped steadily, jumping as though it were trying to reach Dean’s touch.</p><p>Cas’ fingers wrapped around Dean’s wrist, his wedding ring catching the birthing daylight. He brought his hand to Dean’s chest, blanketing it over Dean’s. There was so much tenderness to be found there. It was in his eyes, too, when Dean’s gaze swept up to meet it. Big and blue.</p><p>A thousand memories pooled in Dean’s mind, forming a vast ocean. He hadn’t just seen his life, but Cas’, too. Cas’ thoughts and memories. All that stubborn will and sadness, the shame. The cold defeat under a thin veneer of jaded victory in his last moments. The hunger. The all-consuming <em>want</em>.</p><p>The love.</p><p>Dean didn’t know anyone could love so much.</p><p>He didn’t know anyone could love <em>him</em> so much.</p><p>But Cas did, without any caveats or strings attached. It was written in his smile, on every line of his heart. Dean had seen himself through Cas, and all he saw was a shining light. All the things inside of Dean—the shadowed, ugly things—the things that he had to lock away, to bury, to hide, because the world could never know. Could never accept them.</p><p>But, to Cas, he was gilded in sunlit gold.</p><p>And, when that light went out, Cas had plunged himself into darkness and brought it back. Dean couldn’t help but laugh. They’d been going in circles, sacrificing themselves for one other without even knowing it.</p><p>Dean kept looking at him—the man who stood up to Death itself for him, the man whose heart beat in time with his own. The man who loved him with the power of religion, with the fierceness of the stars.</p><p>The man who loved him. Not despite it all, but because of it.</p><p>It made something click into place: two pieces coming together to form one whole. One life. It nestled inside of him and settled, making itself small to make way for something new. All those horrors of the past—<em>his</em> past—Dean had just seen, but he suddenly could only think of the future. The one he’d share with Cas.</p><p>Their second chance.</p><p>He looked over his shoulder again at Sam. And, yeah, he was <em>good</em>, he decided. Better than he’d been in a long time.</p><p>“I remember,” he said.</p><p>Slowly, he brought his gaze back to Cas’, locking onto it.</p><p>“I remember everything.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0025"><h2>25. Chapter 25</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>i'll save my "see ya laters" until the end of the chapter. but first i wanted to show of these three [<a href="https://valleydean.tumblr.com/post/648226269814816768/loneliness-seeps-from-bone-to-bone-loneliness">one</a>, <a href="https://valleydean.tumblr.com/post/649942821490606080/my-blood-stains-a-tree-in-a-back-garden-i-can-no">two</a>, <a href="https://valleydean.tumblr.com/post/650038512396173312/you-remembered-my-poached-eggs-before-you">three</a>] breathtaking poems that <a href="https://wayward-angels-club.tumblr.com/">wayward-angels-club</a> left in my askbox on tumblr for this fic. i'm so honored! thank you so much!</p><p>and now here we are. the happy ending. as promised. hope you enjoy!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>2020</strong>
</p><p>Castiel sat on the grand staircase, with its twists of browning ivy and tangles of dead weeds snaking along the ruined banisters. Dean was a warm wall against his side, the two of them touching from shoulder to hip to knee, their hands threaded together in Dean’s lap. The morning sun climbed higher in the sky and spread its light inside through the gaping hole in the ceiling above. Birdsong echoed, clear and close, and wings flapped as the birds awoke in their nests in the rafters. The lonely horn of a distant train echoed through the December air.</p><p>He huddled closer to Dean when a cold breeze swept through the foyer, eager to share in the warmth of his body.</p><p>A few steps below them, Sam sat, long legs stretched out before him, elbow propping him up on the stair above. Rowena was nearby, sitting primly, arms around her tight skirt over her knees. The Book of the Damned, along with the rest of the supplies they’d packed up, was in her bag tucked close to her ankles. The red paint of the sigil was still in the carpet, but they’d all decided it was too much effort to clean. After all, the structure they were inside was condemned. No one in their right mind would attempt to wander through it.</p><p>Castiel was very happy that, all those weeks ago, Dean hadn’t been in his right mind.</p><p>After cleaning up, the four of them sat down together, and Castiel and Dean told them what they’d seen during the ritual. Dean did most of the talking, with Castiel interjecting whenever he embellished a piece of the story, which was often met with bickering. Sam or Rowena had to get them back on track a number of times throughout the explanation.</p><p>“So, yeah,” Dean finished at the end of the story, “last thing I remember was Cas touching me. Guess I died before we even finished the ritual.”</p><p>“Which you shouldn’t have done in the first place,” Castiel chastised gently, shooting him a sidelong look.</p><p>Dean scoffed. “You’re one to talk, Mr. Erase Yourself from Existence.”</p><p>Castiel bit down on a grin, holding Dean’s eyes. Dean gave his hand a quick squeeze to punctuate his words. Although Castiel hadn’t remembered his sacrifice before now, and he regretted the circumstances surrounding the event, he didn’t regret saving Dean. He would make the same decision again if it meant Dean got to live.</p><p>Because the man before him <em>was</em> Dean. His Dean. Castiel wondered how he’d ever had any doubt about that. A part of him had known it all along, even if he hadn’t accepted it. He’d held on so tightly to the man Dean used to be that he hadn’t allowed Dean to grow into who he was. Still the same, just more. A shining light that had been so blinding, Castiel had turned away.</p><p>Castiel saw every side of him now, even the ones Dean tried to hide from him. It only made Castiel love him more. Looking at him now, there was nothing but warmth and brilliance.</p><p>“Yes, but I believe what Castiel did is the reason our ritual failed the first time,” Rowena told them.</p><p>Dean broke eye contact first, quickly turning his head to look at Rowena. Castiel lingered on Dean’s profile for a moment longer before giving her his attention as well.</p><p>“In order to bring Dean back to life, Death transferred the power from your connection into Dean’s life force,” she expounded. “In order for that to work, the existence of the connection had to be destroyed, which is why Castiel’s soul perished.”</p><p>Dean brows knitted thoughtfully, but Castiel didn’t have to consider it too hard. He’d always suspected that the only way he’d ever stop loving Dean was if he was removed from existence itself.</p><p>Rowena continued, “Our spell, on the other hand, attempted to build that connection back up. So, it <em>did</em> work, but only halfway because of the circumstances. It brought Castiel back into existence, just not back to life. Then, when he touched you during the ritual, all of that energy transferred into him.”</p><p>“I didn’t remember doing that before,” Castiel said. He hadn’t remembered seeing Dean in any ritual. The first thing he’d remembered from his time as a ghost was waking up in his bedroom to find the bed stripped bare and the manor empty.</p><p>But he wondered if, on some subconscious level, he <em>had</em> remembered it all along—and that’s why he’d waited so long, certain that Dean would return to him.</p><p>“Well, I can’t imagine you would,” Rowena told him with a wave of her hand. “At that point, you were still well inside the veil.”</p><p>“And, whenever Cas would lose time when he was a ghost,” Dean asked, “that was—what? Billie trying to pull him back into nothingness?”</p><p>Rowena thinned her lips, deliberating for a moment. “That makes sense,” she decided. “Sustaining Castiel’s soul after it had been obliterated was bound to require massive amounts of energy. But you’d died, so your connection would have weakened. Think of it like an energy grid. When there isn’t enough power, the lights go off. Though, it does beg the question, how <em>was</em> he sustained all this time?”</p><p>Sam sat up a little straighter. “The cemetery,” he said, sweeping his head to look up at Castiel and Dean. “Sacrifice <em>also</em> transfers energy—and we put the sigil on Cas’ tombstone. You said everything around Cas’ grave was dead, right?”</p><p>Castiel found himself looking in the general direction of the cemetery out back, recalling the barren trees and cracked earth, the rotting animals and insects. Every time a living thing tried to cross through, their energy was taken to keep his spirit in the world. He frowned, feeling sorry for the animals.</p><p>“Yeah, it was,” Dean said, sounding just as taken aback as Castiel. He shifted slightly, pulling Castiel’s attention back to him, but Dean was still looking at Rowena. “My ashes are buried there, too. So, is that why I was brought back?”</p><p>“I should say so,” Rowena answered with a half-shrug. “Castiel’s longing combined with the sacrifices could have done it. When there was enough energy, it pulled your soul back into the world, too.”</p><p>Dean glanced at his brother, sharing a quick look before licking his lips in thought. “But Sam’s not buried there. Neither are my parents. And they were reincarnated, too. So, what gives?”</p><p>Rowena gave a small laugh then. “Are you so dense that you haven’t been listening to a word I’ve said?”</p><p>Dean jerked his head back, offended.</p><p>Sam stifled a laugh. He shifted around on the step to orient his body more fully to Dean. “<em>You</em> brought us back, Dean.”</p><p>Dean pursed his lips incredulously, like he didn’t believe it.</p><p>And of course, he wouldn’t. Dean never understood the power of his own love. There was so much of it, filling him to the brim, spilling over because it was bigger than body. Castiel’s eyes latched onto Dean, roaming his handsome face. A gentle smile pulled at his lips, waiting for Dean to figure it out.</p><p>“I did what?” Dean asked.</p><p>“No soul exists on its own,” Rowena told him. “You <em>need</em> the ones you love in order to <em>be</em>, and they need you in return. That, combined with the ritual being blood magic, and their being your <em>blood</em> relatives...”</p><p>“Connection,” Sam summarized.</p><p>Realization washed over Dean’s face, making his expression freeze. He blinked dumbly.</p><p>Castiel tightened his grip on Dean’s hand, offering support.</p><p>“Wait, so you’re—” Dean gave a nervous laugh, his eyes flashing to each of them in turn. “You’re saying I <em>loved</em> them to life?”</p><p>“If you want to mince words, then yes, precisely,” Rowena confirmed, seeming relieved that he understood.</p><p>Dean sat back, the information settling over him awkwardly. “I feel like I’m in a Disney movie again.”</p><p>Castiel chuckled down at his lap. Sam gave a breath of laughter, too.</p><p>“The point being,” Rowena said firmly, “All’s well that ends well. You’re both alive again, and Castiel should be <em>fully</em> alive now.” She looked at him, a question in her eyes. “Correct?”</p><p>Castiel looked inward, searching for any new sensations or signs pointing him to a yes or no answer. “I don’t <em>feel</em> any different,” he said, wondering if it were true. The steady beat of his heart responded by thumping away in his chest, and all he could feel in the spaces between its rhythm was Dean. But that was nothing new. Dean was his resting pulse.</p><p>Dean’s expression shifted into worry. “What? What does that—”</p><p>“Relax,” Rowena said, holding out a hand. “The ritual went perfectly. I’m certain, after the shock wears off, Castiel will show all signs of life.” Castiel prayed she was right. He didn’t mean to frighten Dean. He glanced back up, finding Rowena’s eyes on him. “There’s nothing to worry about. Death has no hold on you anymore. You’re free to do whatever you please with whatever time you have left.”</p><p>Castiel’s breath caught. He knew there was no way she could have possibly understood the impact of her words. Only when he fully understood them himself, he breathed out, a wistful smile blooming on his face as he marveled at the wonder of it all.</p><p>He was free.</p><p>It was daunting, in a way, and miraculous. It nestled into place inside of him, warm and comfortable.</p><p><em>They</em> were free.</p><p>“We know where you live if something went wrong,” Dean told Rowena, but there was no real heat behind his words.</p><p>“Yes, well,” Rowena said, brushing it off. She stood up, clearing her throat, and hefted her bag over her shoulder. “If there aren’t any other questions, I believe it’s time I got my much-deserved beauty rest.”</p><p>Castiel smiled softly at her, humored.</p><p>“One more thing,” Dean cut in, holding up a finger. He used it to point at Sam. “Is Sam still the only one who can kill you?”</p><p>Sam gave a sudden choked sound, holding up his palms innocently. “I’m—I’m not—” His wide eyes moved earnestly to Rowena. “I’m not gonna kill you.”</p><p>Rowena gave an airy laugh and bent over to place her hand on Sam’s shoulder. “Dear boy, I <em>know</em>,” she said, much to Sam's relief. And then, “You and I became quite close in your previous life, didn’t we?”</p><p>The words were something of a surprise. Castiel didn’t exactly understand them. He tilted his head to the side, brow lining. Next to him, Dean’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline suggestively and he glanced between Sam and Rowena with amusement.</p><p>“We… We, uh…” Sam floundered, blinking rapidly. “We did?”</p><p>Instead of answering, Rowena stood back up straight and flipped her bright hair over her shoulder. “Come see me again, Samuel. Let’s see if we can get your memories back, too.” With that, she turned on her heels and sauntered toward the front door.</p><p>As the three of them watched her go, Castiel realized he should have thanked her for her help. In truth, he didn’t know how. Words didn’t seem adequate. But he figured he’d have time to figure out the proper method. Something told him they’d see much more of her in the future.</p><p>When she was gone, Dean let out a lewd laugh and teased, “Sammy!”</p><p>Sam’s head whipped around, shooting him a dark look. “Shut up.”</p><p>“Looks like you bagged yourself a MILF.”</p><p>“Shut up,” Sam said again, standing up. He was blushing. “I’m sure we were just friends.”</p><p>Dean hummed, eyes twinkling. “Uh-huh.”</p><p>Sam rolled his eyes. “Whatever. Can we go?” He didn’t wait for an answer before hustling down the steps.</p><p>Humor and happiness still sparkling on his features, Dean let his hand slide from Castiel’s as he stood up. He bounced down a step and turned back around, their eyes locking.</p><p>“Alright, sweetheart, what d’you say?” he asked. “Ready to never step foot in this place again?”</p><p>Despite himself, a tiny twang of sadness went through Castiel. He cast his eyes around the foyer, taking it all in—the decrepit world he’d been a fixture in for so long. Despite all the resentment he’d held for the house, he couldn’t help but to remember the bright, glorious hall it used to be, where he and Anna would chase each other as children, where music would play, where friends would call around. And he recalled watching the slow malice of time driving it to ruin.</p><p><em>Time</em>. For 152 years, he’d cursed it—the abundance of it, the emptiness of it. All of it, alone. But now, he wondered if there wasn’t enough of it left. He was no longer a fixture. He’d live a life contingent on time’s passage. He’d race time, fear it, live inside it, wish for it to slow, waste it on lazy days, mourn it before its end.</p><p>He’d spend it with Dean.</p><p>“Yes,” Castiel said, the bittersweet joy of all things fleeting and mortal swelling within him. “I am.”</p><p>Dean held out his hand in offering. Castiel clapped his palm against it, allowing Dean to pull him up.</p><p>They left together.</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p> </p><p>Since they woke up from the ritual, Dean had hardly taken his hands off Castiel. Just as he’d squeezed Castiel’s hand throughout Rowena’s explanation of events, on the quiet car ride home, he made Sam sit in the back so he could rest his hand on Castiel’s thigh as they drove.</p><p>Castiel wasn’t complaining. Dean had always been tactile, but he seemed to be clinging now. Like he thought Castiel was still about to vanish into thin air.</p><p>He wouldn’t. Castiel didn’t know if he was imagining it, but as the minutes wore on, he was beginning to feel different. More present, in a way. More than ever, he could feel the gravel crunching under the Impala’s tires, the wind in his hair, the dampness of the morning on his skin beaten back by the warmth of his coat. The only thing that hadn’t changed was the way Dean’s hands felt in his.</p><p>Throughout the drive, Castiel couldn’t take his eyes off Dean. He wondered if Dean felt different, too, but that was all he had to wonder about anymore. He’d seen everything—Dean’s thoughts, his feelings, his struggle, both in the present life and the last. He no longer had any doubt about the man beside him.</p><p>Castiel loved him—wholly. He knew Dean loved him back. He could feel it in Dean’s touch.</p><p>Though, when they arrived back home, Dean slipped his hand from Castiel and kept them in fists at his sides. His demeanor changed slightly now that they had a moment’s peace. The line of his shoulders was guarded, and Castiel, as he followed Dean and Sam into the townhouse, thought he knew why.</p><p>Dean had seen Castiel’s thoughts and feelings, too. He’d seen his doubts. Dean was focusing on the latter.</p><p>Once inside the warmth of the townhouse, Castiel slipped out of his coat and hung it on the rack next to Dean’s. He rubbed at his eyes, a warm kind of tiredness encompassing him. He moved to the couch and plopped down heavily.</p><p>Sam remained near the door, and Dean placed himself halfway to the kitchen. “Okay, who’s hungry?” he said, and Castiel certainly was.</p><p>However, Sam scoffed. “Pass. I’ll get something to eat at the library.”</p><p>Castiel furrowed his brows, looking at Sam. There was something excitable written on his face, a giddiness in his eyes. Dean whipped around. “The library?” he yelled, and then, “Oh, shit—right. It’s exam week. What day is it?”</p><p>“It’s Monday,” Sam deadpanned. “And, no, I don’t have a test today. Neither do you, by the way.”</p><p>Castiel was grateful for that. He wanted to have Dean to himself, without distraction, for the day.</p><p>“Thank God for that,” Dean grumbled. “Wait, then <em>why</em> are you going to the library?”</p><p>Sam let out another scoffing sound. “Are you kidding? Dean. We just brought Cas back to <em>life</em>,” he exclaimed. Castiel squinted in his direction, confused as to what that had to do with anything. “There are witches! And we’re Men of Letters! You said Bobby had all those books, right? I gotta track them down! And—I mean—who knows what else is out there?”</p><p>His happiness was infectious. Castiel found himself fighting back a smile. Dean, however, was blanching at his brother.</p><p>“I gotta do research!” Sam said breathlessly. He held up his hands. “Keys.”</p><p>Dean rolled his eyes, muttering, “Such a nerd.” Still, he reached into his pocket and tossed Sam the car keys. Sam immediately opened the door. Dean shouted after him, “Don’t sprain anything!” He shook his head, pretending to be annoyed. But his eyes flashed to Castiel, and there was amusement in them.</p><p>Castiel gave him a warm look in response, glad that they had the house to themselves. He supposed there were things the two of them had to say to one another.</p><p>Dean appeared to think so, too. He cleared his throat, smile fading.</p><p>He remained hovering in the threshold between the living room and the kitchen. “So,” he said down at the floor. He dug the toe of his boot into the carpet and his hands into his jean pockets. “Now that you’re a real boy, I’m guessing you probably wanna take off. See the world or whatever.”</p><p>Castiel raised a brow, studying him—the way he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, every motion stilted; the way his tone was too forced, too casual, hiding the fear beneath. Dean had been inside Castiel’s head, and he still felt he had to guard himself.</p><p>“Is that what you think I want?” Castiel asked, already knowing the answer. They’d never given up on each other before; they wouldn’t now.</p><p>Dean’s eyes snapped up at him. He went still.</p><p>And maybe Castiel was afraid, too. Because now, there were no lies or misunderstandings between them. They were—fully, completely—on the same page. What was more, they now lived in a world where they could be together. Maybe neither of them knew how to navigate that situation. Part of Castiel felt like it was still a secret.</p><p>It wasn’t, though. They were free.</p><p>Dean scoffed out a hollow laugh, eyes turning upward to the ceiling. “I dunno, Cas. I got no idea what I’m doing.”</p><p>And that was fine. Neither did Castiel. But he’d like to figure it out together.</p><p>“Dean, come here,” he said, placing his hand on the cushion beside him.</p><p>Dean stole a quick breath before doing as he was asked. He perched himself on the couch, clasping his hands between his knees.</p><p>Castiel shuffled closer to him, settling in. He tried to find words for his thoughts. “What I did… I don’t mean saving you, but… killing myself. I regret it—but not just because it caused us so much pain,” he started, staring off in thought. He could feel Dean’s eyes flickering across his face.</p><p>“But… Dean, I was so lost. I didn’t understand that I wasn’t alone in life. I had people—friends. Not just you. And I still do. I have Sam and Kelly and Jack, Charlie. And… maybe—maybe I just needed to see it from a distance, but Rowena’s spell made me realize… I also have myself.”</p><p>He looked back at Dean, seeing his brow line in question.</p><p>Castiel explained, “For so long, I thought my life belonged to someone else. At first, I thought it was my father, and I hated it. But then I met you—and my life belonged to you, Dean.”</p><p>Dean opened his mouth, likely to deny it, even though they both knew it to be true. Castiel wouldn’t let him.</p><p>“Now I see, it doesn’t have to be that way. By the time I realized I was capable of making my own choices, it was too late. But it isn’t anymore.” He looked around, the reality of his situation sinking into his breastbone. It beat alongside his heart. He felt like he could fly; at the same time, he’d never been so certain of his place on the earth. “My life is my own,” he said, and refocused on Dean. “And I’d like to share it with you.”</p><p>For a brief moment, Dean’s eyes overcome with emotion. He blinked it away as best he could. Breathless, he said, “I want that, too.” And Castiel already knew that. Still, it was nice to hear it out loud.</p><p>“But, Cas, after all that shit…” Dean hung his head, shook it. “The way you see me… Is that <em>really</em> how you see me?”</p><p>Castiel knitted his brows together, not understanding. Dean was radiant, beautiful. He was good. Through it all, Castiel’s certainty of that had never wavered. He just hadn’t been able to express it in words. But now that Dean had seen himself through Castiel’s eyes, perhaps there was a chance of him understanding.</p><p>“Of course,” Castiel told him like it was the simplest thing in the world, because it was.</p><p>Dean lifted his gaze like he was searching for a lie. He was <em>so</em> close to believing it.</p><p>Still, his eyes were full of pain. “I’m so sorry I left you.”</p><p>Castiel looked away briefly, nodding. For over a century, he’d only felt sorrow—but now, he knew he was focusing on the wrong thing. “Yeah, well… You came back.” Dean had always been trying to get back to him. That’s all that mattered. “Besides, I think we’re even now. I left you, too, by going to live with Kelly and Jack.”</p><p>Dean didn’t appear comforted by that. He hung his head. “Maybe you were right to. I dunno, Cas. It’s like… I know I got all your stuff in my head now. But my own stuff’s still there, too. And I—I don’t know which one of us is right.”</p><p>Castiel tilted his head, listening. He’d always known Dean had seen himself as something carnivorous, horrible but necessary. He thought all the softness he held within him was the exception, not the rule. Castiel just hadn’t known how deep-seated those thoughts were before. He wondered if he’d ever be able to fully convince Dean of the truth.</p><p>Dean scoffed wetly. “I mean, even before I knew anything about you or my past life, I never thought I was somebody that a person would want anything to do with. But now I’m told that I got enough—enough—” He pointed at his chest. “<em>Love</em> in me to not only bring you back, but Sam and my parents, too?”</p><p>“Is that really so unbelievable?” Castiel asked.</p><p>“<em>Kinda</em>!” Dean answered at once. “I mean… why me?”</p><p>Did he really not know? It seemed obvious to Castiel. He heard himself give a breath of laughter, a smile pressing against his lips.</p><p>Dean looked even more confused than before.</p><p>“Because, Dean,” Castiel said, touching the curves of Dean’s face, “you’re a gardener. It’s who you are. You bring things to life.”</p><p>Beneath his fingertips, he felt Dean’s expression shift. Emotion passed over his eyes, like he was realizing something he hadn’t considered before.</p><p>And then, his features rearranged again. He took in a sharp breath and reached for Castiel’s hand on his face. He held it in his own for a long time. Suddenly, he reached over Castiel’s body and picked up his other hand.</p><p>Castiel was struck with the suddenness of it. “Dean? What is it?”</p><p>Dean let out an amazed breath. His eyes swept upward to meet Castiel’s. “Your hands are warm.”</p><p>It took a long moment for clarity to wash over Castiel. When it did, everything felt real. <em>He</em> felt real. Dean was laughing happily, love in his eyes. Love, both ancient and brand new. Laughter bubbled out of Castiel’s chest, too.</p><p>He was <em>alive</em>.</p><p>Dean brought Castiel’s hands to his lips, pressing kisses on Castiel’s knuckles. It caused an aching in Castiel’s chest. He didn’t know if that would ever go away, the feeling of wanting to be impossibly closer to him. Dean was already closer to Castiel than his own skin.</p><p>Dean whispered, “I love you, Mr. Winchester.”</p><p>Castiel nodded, words getting clogged in his throat. Hands still tied together, Dean leaned forward for a kiss—chaste and sweet. Castiel kept his eyes open, looking at the fan shape of Dean’s eyelashes and the freckles on his nose. When the kiss broke, Dean lingered close, face ducked. He pressed the tip of his nose into the side of Castiel’s, resting there with his eyes closed.</p><p>When Castiel spoke, his bottom lip snagged on Dean’s. All he managed to say was, “Mr. Winchester…”</p><p>And he wasn’t sure how he was going to follow that up, but it didn’t matter. Dean pressed in again, parting his lips to tongue at the seam of Castiel’s mouth. Castiel breathed into him, letting Dean deepen the kiss.</p><p>He slipped his hands out of Dean’s and palmed at Dean’s chest, pushing him gently against the back of the couch. Without breaking the kiss, he straddled Dean’s lap, his hands framing Dean’s jaw. Dean’s palms traveled down Castiel’s back, fitting beneath the hem of his shirt and sliding up his spine.</p><p>Castiel shivered at the touch, and something started stirring deep inside of him. He drew away from Dean’s lips, their eyes meeting. “Take me upstairs.”</p><p>Dean nodded fervently, lips parted and swollen, as looked up at him in supplication.</p><p>They got off the couch, but Castiel wasn’t without Dean’s touch for long. Dean’s hands were on his hips as they walked through the kitchen. At the base of the stairs, Castiel turned into him and pulled him closer, kissing him slowly. Dean backed him against the wall. He helped Castiel out of his shirt, then pulled off his own, discarding them both to the floor.</p><p>Dean’s chest against Castiel’s was already heated. The thumping of his heart beat against Castiel’s, like the two were reaching for each other through the barrier of their skin. Castiel’s fingers explored Dean’s back, making Dean groan under the ministrations. The sounds traveled down Castiel’s body, filling him out. He tilted his hips into Dean’s; Dean pressed back, the hard line of his dick felt through his jeans.</p><p>Castiel suddenly needed air. He broke away, drinking in bouts. Dean was panting into Castiel’s throat.</p><p>“Upstairs,” Castiel said again, more urgently this time.</p><p>Dean grabbed him by the wrist and led him up to their room. They fell into bed together, and dissolved into heady kisses. Their bodies moved into one another, pushing and pulling.</p><p>“Come back home,” Dean said against Castiel’s mouth.</p><p>Castiel’s chest felt too tight, and he thought he could weep. He knew what Dean was asking—to collect his belongings from Kelly’s, to move back in, to share a bed and a life. And, of course, Castiel would—but such fleeting, worldly things seemed incomparable to Dean’s skin on Castiel’s skin, to their breaths mingling. Their heartbeats were the same.</p><p>“I am,” Castiel told him. He wrapped his arms around Dean and rolled onto his back, pulling Dean on top of him.</p><p>As Dean kissed his way down Castiel’s neck and torso, Castiel could feel himself heating up. An electric current thrummed beneath his skin, zapping through him and collecting in the spots where Dean’s mouth laid onto him. His chest swelled, something too big to name ballooning inside it, and his body shifted upward in response to Dean.</p><p>Dean mouthed at his hipbone and slowly opened up the fly of Castiel’s jeans. Castiel lifted his hips off the bed, letting Dean slide the rest of his clothes off of him. He placed his elbows beneath him and propped himself up, watching Dean standing at the foot of the bed, stripping off his jeans and boxers.</p><p>The sight of all his freckled skin made Castiel’s throat go dry. He bit down on his lip, eager to get his hands back on Dean.</p><p>They kept each other’s gaze, hardly blinking, while Dean got back onto the bed and crawled up Castiel’s body. His face hovered close, warm breaths skirting across Castiel’s cheeks. Castiel lifted his hand up, stroked his fingers along Dean’s jaw and hairline, every line and curve exactly as it always was.</p><p>Dean sealed their mouths again and laid on top of him. His heated palms framed Castiel’s cheeks, thumb dipped toward the corners of their lips. Castiel dragged his hands down Dean’s back. When he got to his lower spine, Dean dipped his hips forward. A sound lifted out of his throat, reverberating into Castiel’s mouth. Castiel moaned back and parted his legs to shift Dean closer. The hard, hot line of him moved against Castiel’s pulsing groin.</p><p>When they parted for air, Dean pressed his forehead against Castiel’s and hummed. Eyes half-open, he groaned, “Cas.” There was a question in his tone, mixing with desire.</p><p>Castiel wanted to be joined with Dean in every way imaginable. He could hardly stand the wait. A low growl of dizzy frustration rumbled out of him, and he quickly reached for the side drawer of the desk next to the bed. Dean lifted himself up fractionally, giving Castiel room. There was a fervent stupor written on his features, his lips parted. Castiel felt around the drawer until he found a condom of the bottle of lube.</p><p>As soon as he pulled them out, Dean jolted readily. He picked himself up to sit on Castiel’s lap, his body already vibrating. Castiel let out a breath of laughter and sat up. He placed the items to the side momentarily and placed one hand on Dean’s hip. He brought the other to Dean’s face.</p><p>“Here,” he said, tapping his fingertips against Dean’s lower lip. Dean parted his mouth, taking Castiel’s fingers in and sucking on them. Castiel watched, enraptured by it. Dean’s tongue wrapped around him, his mouth hot and wet. With his free hand, Castiel picked the lube back up and flipped the cap open. He fought to single handedly squeeze some into his fingers. When the gel was warm, he reached around and began working Dean open.</p><p>Eventually, Dean gave up on sucking Castiel’s fingers so he could pull in deep breaths. His flushed chest inflated, and air was choppy as it came back out of him. His hands were in Castiel’s hair, messing it up to his satisfaction.</p><p>When Dean was ready, he put some gel into his open hands and slicked Castiel up, pulling and playing and teasing until Castiel collapsed against his chest. He had to grit his teeth to stop himself from losing control under Dean’s touch.</p><p>He <em>did</em> lose all sense of composure when Dean sunk down on him and began working his body. Castiel wrapped his arms around Dean’s middle, pulling their chests together, and rolled up into Dean. Dean’s forehead was against his own again, their panting breaths mixing, and Castiel got lost in it.</p><p>In the sounds Dean was making, in the way his hips moved, in slow drag of his dick against Castiel’s stomach.</p><p>Castiel moved his hands up, placed them on Dean’s shoulders. Dean’s palms were splayed on Castiel’s back. His spine racked, a moan punching out of him, and Castiel knew he’d hit home.</p><p>When he hit it again, Dean reached between them and started to finish himself off. Castiel’s eyes fluttered in pleasure. He tilted his head back, and Dean buried his nose into the hollow of his neck.</p><p>They came close to each other, with Dean’s body tensing and shuddering and Castiel gasping for breath. Castiel felt overheated, his thoughts nonsensical—all but for the swirling mantra of, <em>Dean</em>.</p><p>When the last ripples of pleasure spread out to get lost in the tide, all that was left was the slamming of Castiel’s heart and the sound of Dean’s breath.</p><p>Dean exhumed himself from Castiel’s neck, leaving behind a wet spot where he’d mouthed a red patch into the skin. Castiel lowered his head, bliss setting a wide grin to his face. It had been much too long since he and Dean had sex, and Castiel never wished to go without him for such a span of time again.</p><p>Dean appeared lighter, too, and sated. He was glowing from within. “I think I might’a come twice,” he slurred, laughter in his rough tone.</p><p>Castiel kissed his smile. “I love you, too,” he said, and kissed him again. Dean threw his arms around Castiel’s neck and kissed back enthusiastically, moaning happily, and Castiel wanted to have him again and again.</p><p>When the kiss broke, Dean lifted himself off of Castiel with an uncomfortable grimace and rolled onto the bed next to him. While Dean took the covers out from under them, Castiel took a moment to look down at his body. There was come on his stomach. He pulled off the spent condom and discarded it in the trash can under the desk.</p><p>Dean was sleepily stretching out beside him, knuckling at his eyes. As much as the familiar sight caused a flutter in Castiel’s chest, it also lulled him into a warm sense of safety and comfort. Castiel pulled the blankets up higher, shielding them both from the damp chill of the day. Sweat cooled on his skin, and his hammering heart was beginning to settle. Every inch of him was laced with euphoria as he pressed against Dean’s side.</p><p>Dean chuckled. He fit his arm beneath Castiel and wrapped it around him, drawing him in closer to a quick kiss that Castiel accepted easily. “So, was that any different now that you’re alive?” he joked.</p><p>Castiel took a moment to consider the question. He hummed, idly tracing the familiar design of Dean’s old tattoo on his chest with the tip of his finger. “I don’t know,” he answered honestly, raising his brows in thought. Castiel had always felt more alive than he ever had when he and Dean laid together. He wasn’t certain that would ever change, and he didn’t want it to. “Being with you has always been… vivacious.”</p><p>“I’ve heard that before!”</p><p>With nothing more than a roll of his eyes, Castiel let the comment slide. Dean was beaming at him, eyes shining beautifully—shining for Castiel. It was a sight that never failed to quicken Castiel’s heart.</p><p>He flattened his palm atop Dean’s chest, and Dean blanketed his hand over it. Castiel pressed in for another lingering kiss.</p><p>When it broke, Dean squeezed his hand and said, “I think we should spend all day in bed.”</p><p>It made a laugh bubble up Castiel’s throat. “I was going to suggest the same thing.”</p><p>“Oh, yeah? Maybe we better change the sheets first.”</p><p>“Later,” Castiel told him, kissing the corner of his mouth. “I plan on having sex with you several more times today.”</p><p>Dean kept his tone light, even though his cheeks were pink and his eyes eager. He stroked Castiel’s fingers. “<em>Several</em>? Well, hell, I’ll clear my schedule.”</p><p>Castiel’s gaze flickered across the freckles of Dean’s face, each one perfect—exactly where he remembered. Dean. <em>His</em> Dean. All the pieces of him came together like a puzzle, and Castiel wondered why he’d been so focused on the jagged lines between each piece instead of the whole picture.</p><p>His Dean.</p><p>Dean’s smile faded somewhat, his hands stilling. He fiddled with the ring on Castiel’s finger. “We gotta get me one of these,” he whispered. Castiel’s eyes snapped back up to him, breath snagging. Dean was looking downward. “Since you’re sticking around.”</p><p>“I am,” Castiel promised, breathless.</p><p>“Good,” Dean said, throat bobbing when he swallowed. “Then maybe we can do some other stuff, too. Like I could… I dunno, teach you had to drive a car and work the oven. Ya know—since I kinda dropped the ball on introducing you to the 21<sup>st</sup> century.”</p><p>It was an apology. But there was nothing to forgive.</p><p>Dean’s eyes swept up to meet Castiel’s. “I’m gonna do better. I promise, Cas, I’m gonna be the guy you say I am.” Castiel wanted to tell him that he already was, but he knew what Dean truly meant. When Castiel had first returned, Dean had resisted. He’d been afraid of losing his identity by accepting his past life. Castiel knew he wasn’t afraid anymore, because there was nothing to fear. “I just… didn’t know what the fuck I was doing at first.”</p><p>Castiel pressed his lips together empathetically. Neither of them had known what they were doing. They still didn’t. But at least, now, there was no doubt between them. “Well, that’s understandable. Our situation isn’t exactly common.”</p><p>Dean snorted. “Yeah, you think?” He shifted somewhat, getting more comfortable. Yawning widely, he added, “But I mean it, Cas. We’re gonna figure it out—you and me. We’re gonna get my mom on board and get you adjusted and… Well, I mean… Other stuff.”</p><p>“Other stuff?” Castiel asked flatly, wondering what that meant. Dean’s eyes shifted like he had something specific in mind.</p><p>He licked his lips. “Life stuff,” he amended, and Castiel squinted, still not knowing what he was suggesting. Dean huffed. “You and me—starting a life together. A real life. You know—white picket fence and shit.”</p><p>Castiel raised a brow, interested. He thought of their imaginary house in Boston with its immaculate gardens. It had only ever been a fantasy. Whatever the reality would be, Castiel was certain it’d be better than he could ever dream. They would start again, taking the past and the future with them whenever they went. “I’d like to do <em>life stuff</em> with you.”</p><p>Dean dipped his head in relief. He shrugged. “Well, maybe we can start that off with… I dunno.” He played with Castiel’s fingers again, suddenly timid. “A real wedding?”</p><p>Castiel went still, his heart skipping.</p><p>“Since we kinda had a shotgun wedding the first time,” Dean went on. “We could have a party with family. Friends… If you want.”</p><p>Castiel tried to picture it. He’d never really thought what his wedding might look like because, before Dean, he’d never wanted one. But, even now, Castiel wouldn’t change his marriage to Dean for anything. It had been uneventful and bland, an interview and signing documents at a courthouse. But Dean had been there, and that was all Castiel required.</p><p>“Dean, I don’t need—”</p><p>“Yeah, I know, but that’s not what I’m asking,” Dean interrupted. “What do you <em>want</em>?”</p><p>A real wedding was what Dean wanted, even if he’d never ask for it. Castiel knew it just by looking at him. And Castiel knew exactly what he wanted, too: the same thing he always had. To be with Dean, and to be without shame.</p><p>For the first time, he truly knew he could have it.</p><p>“I want to tell the whole world I’m yours.”</p><p>Dean drew in a sharp breath like he hadn’t expected that. Castiel was happy that, even after all this time, he could still surprise him.</p><p>Then, a sunny grin broke onto Dean’s face. He nodded.</p><p>“Then, let’s tell the whole world.”</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <strong>2021</strong>
</p><p>They had a summer wedding. It was a large gathering held on the grounds of a biergarten along the banks of the Connecticut River.</p><p>Mary flew in about a week ago to help with the final last-minute arrangements. It had been a long Christmas break trying to convince her of the truth, but they’d managed it, and Castiel believed she was truly happy for him and Dean. On the day of the wedding, she swore she hadn’t cried during the exchanging of vows, even though Sam and Dean teased her for her red-rimmed eyes.</p><p>Charlie and Dorothy were in attendance, as well. Castiel could see them now, swaying on the dance floor under the pavilion, and he was glad they’d been able to work out their differences. Nora was currently seated at one of the tables. She had brought baby Tanya, who attracted a crowd of cooing men and women. Jack was stepping on Kelly’s feet as the two danced and laughed together. Sam had already given his best man’s speech, and now he was chatting with Rowena and a few adults. A dozen other people were there—friends and Dean’s uncles, aunts, and cousins—some of whom were familiar to Castiel, some he only knew by name, and some he’d never even heard of before. But that didn’t matter so much. The only person he really saw in the crowd was Dean.</p><p>And then there were the people who were not there. Balthazar and Gabriel. Bobby Singer. Benny. Jo. Anna.</p><p>If Castiel tried hard enough, he imagined he could see them among the crowd—laughing uproariously, raising a glass, picking up forkfuls of cake, twirling on the dancefloor, smiling proudly. Their visages flashed and blinked out of the corners of Castiel’s eyes. Nothing but ghosts.</p><p>The afternoon had been a hot one, causing Dean to take off his blazer, and Castiel stubbornly insisted he’d endure—because it was proper—and instantly regretted the decision. Fortunately, the sun set to a gentle breeze. Its burning light painted the ripples on the river. It deepened the colors of the rose bushes, made the green ivy snaking along the pavilion’s white columns darken and pop, brought birds to roost in the hedges and trees. The purple twilight brought out the first of the brightest planets and stars.</p><p>Castiel was seated at the head table, digesting dessert. His eyes were beginning to get heavy, his muscles lax and comfortable. Even though this ceremony had just been a formality—a “celebration,” as Dean called it—Castiel had been too jittery to sleep much the night before. But, when he finally managed it, he dreamed of the day ahead. Their life ahead.</p><p>He listened to the music playing on the speakers, its sweet sound blending into the chatter of their guests. His eyes scanned the crowd, searching for his husband. He heard Dean’s laughter before Castiel spotted him. Dean was talking to a group of friends who Castiel recognized from a few college parties that none of them had an excuse to attend anymore now that they were all graduated. It was likely that many of them would spread out to different areas, moving back home or finding jobs.</p><p>Dean and Castiel would remain in Amherst for the time being. Dean wanted to be around Sam, and he’d taken on more opportunities at the garage now that he had his degree. In a few years, they’d move elsewhere. Perhaps California. Sam was talking about law school there, Dean would be able to pursue a career in automotive engineering, and Castiel was certain he’d be able to find work. Besides, it was a warm thought: that the two of them would finally make it to the west coast. It was better late than never.</p><p>Still, it was a strange thing to consider, leaving Amherst after being there for a century and a half. Part of him was almost afraid to do it, and the other part of him was exuberant. He’d be with Dean. It was all he wanted. But, for now, he was content to stay. He had a life in Amherst.</p><p>Regrettably, he’d left his job at the gas station a few months ago to work at the public library. He assisted the head librarian with administrative tasks, but his main role was in the children’s section. He tutored them on language studies, and helped the young ones learn how to read. Jack would come every Saturday afternoon for story time, and he’d often bring all his classmates. Sometimes, Jack would even insist on reading the book to the group himself. He was always very good at it.</p><p>Castiel was glad to have more time with Jack and Kelly. He hoped, when he did leave Amherst, they’d visit. It wasn’t hard to imagine. Kelly’s parents lived in California, after all.</p><p>But that was a worry for the future.</p><p>For now, Castiel let his eyes linger on Dean. The twinkle in his gaze, the relaxed set of his shoulders, the bow of his legs in his suit, the ring on his finger, the way his smile lit him up from the inside out. Castiel thought of the man with dirt on his cheeks and under his fingernails. And he realized that love is a kind of mourning. It felt the same, just as the man before him was the same—beautiful, unfathomable. Dean.</p><p>He was everything Castiel had ever wanted without knowing it until that man had blundered into his music room and interrupted his playing all those years ago. And if only Castiel had known then that Dean would be his happy ending, maybe things would have happened differently.</p><p>It didn’t matter. Because everything that had happened to get them to this place was worth it…</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>1868</strong>
</p><p>It had been late at night when Jo knocked on Castiel’s bedroom door. He thought everyone had gone to sleep. He’d even been settling in himself, dressed in his flannel pajamas and slippers to combat the chill of the spring night. She’d asked him to come quickly, and Castiel had feared something terrible had happened—something he, as the master of the manor while his father was away, would have to deal with.</p><p>She rushed through the corridor, and the house was quiet around them. He hastened after her, down the stairs leading to the mezzanine. She kept going, pattering down the carpeted steps of the grand staircase leading to the foyer.</p><p>But Castiel stopped short at the top of the flight. He took in the scene below.</p><p>Benny was sitting at the piano that should have been in the music room. Jo was positioning herself next to him, picking up a violin. And there, at the bottom of the stairs, stood Dean. He was in a black wool suit—the color slightly faded; his waistcoat ill-fitting. But the bright moonlight against the indigo sky was pouring through the high windows, illuminating him in their silver rays. Castiel couldn’t quite find his breath for a moment.</p><p>When he did, he used it to ask, confused, “Dean?” He squinted back to the other two, both seeming poised to begin playing at any moment.</p><p>“It’s not exactly a string quartet,” Dean told him. His voice was smooth, humored, but it had the slightest undercurrent of nervousness. Clarity dawning on Castiel, he felt a fluttering in his stomach.</p><p>“But what d’you say, Cas?” Dean asked, holding up his hand in offering. “Can I have this dance?”</p><p>As though the answer could only possibly be yes, Benny and Jo began playing. Castiel thought it might have been a rendition of Vieuxtemps’ <em>Rêverie</em> but he couldn’t be certain. Because all of his focus was on Dean.</p><p>And, of course, the only possible answer was yes.</p><p>Castiel moved down the stairs…</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>2021</strong>
</p><p>Suddenly, there was the tinkering of utensils against glass. The sound grew louder as more people chimed in. The music faded out, and everyone stepped off the dance floor. Mary went to the middle of it and announced the first dance, and Castiel assumed that was his cue.</p><p>He got up from the table, head spinning with tiredness and beer and joy. Dean got to the dancefloor first. He embraced his mother, and perhaps his green eyes were misty now, even though he’d never admit it. Mary departed, stepping into the circle of onlookers and cameras.</p><p>Castiel kept his eyes set on Dean. Distantly, he realized the music was fading in again.</p><p>He came to a stop in front of his husband. Dean’s grin was lopsided. He bowed low, exaggeratedly, and laughter lifted up from the crowd. Castiel bowed his head in return, the bubbly feeling in his chest spilling out to his lips. When Dean straightened out, his expression had softened. He held out his palm in offering.</p><p>Castiel was in awe of him.</p><p>He reached out…</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>1868</strong>
</p><p>…and slid his hand into Dean’s.</p><p>Dean led him in a waltz. It was more than the box step Castiel had taught him months ago, and it was clear he’d been practicing during his winter in Boston. Though, his promenade was a little stiff, and his footwork was stilted. He stumbled a few times, a nervous smile coming to his lips every time. Castiel only let out low, throaty chuckles, because he didn’t care if Dean hadn’t mastered the waltz. He didn’t care if Dean’s hands were calloused and fingernails lined with dirt. Dean’s hand caressed the wings of Castiel’s back; Castiel gripped Dean’s shoulder.</p><p>It was perfect.</p><p>Dean was perfect.</p><p>He seemed to gain confidence as they continued on, with one movement melting into the other. He tried to twirl Castiel, causing a bubble of laughter to puff out of Castiel. Dean laughed, too, as the room spun around them. The rules of the dance dissolved somewhat from there, and Castiel wasn’t quite certain who was leading anymore. He dipped Dean. Dean pulled his arm around Castiel’s back, setting them closer than they should have been for a waltz.</p><p>Castiel couldn’t take his eyes off Dean the entire time. Dean stared right back at him, and Castiel swore he could see his entire future in Dean’s gaze, and in each spinning step. Dean seemed happy. In that moment, Castiel was, too, and he felt he always would be.</p><p>And he thought the song should have been over by now. But it seemed it had started again, the last note flowing seamlessly back into the first, giving it a new life without end. And he was content to stay that way forever.</p><p>Dean and Castiel remained in each other’s arms. The music played on.</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>END.</strong>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>hey! we did it!!</p><p>thank you so, so much to everyone whose been following this fic since the beginning, everyone who found it along the way, and everyone who decided to pick it up after it ended! and a very, very big thanks to everyone who read my ficlet back in october and told me "you need to make this a full fic right now!!" otherwise, i would have never even thought of expanding it! i'm so grateful for all your support and kind words and for making this fic (my first post-finale fic) so special to me.</p><p>and a major shout of to my lovely betas, <a href="https://wanderingcas.tumblr.com/">sam</a>, <a href="https://herowilson.tumblr.com/">dee</a>, and <a href="https://donestiel.tumblr.com/">amy</a>, who i deadass couldn't have done any of this without (because my grammar is terrible and my ideas lack confidence until someone tells me they're decent lmao). you guys are my rocks.</p><p>just as a little behind the scenes tidbit, if anyone is interested - i obviously made the last dance(s) set to vieuxtemps, which you can listen to on the <a href="https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3I0yW9IhWGUpKiFxxhayOw">playlist</a> for this fic, because of the piano and violin and it's time period appropriate (and i thought it was a great fit to wrap up dean and cas' story) - but, in my head, <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8tlmFJJYeGA">this was actually the song</a> i was imagining. unfortunately, it's not from the 1800s and <i>tragically</i> it isn't on spotify! because it's one of my fave songs and it's a perfect goodbye for this fic, imo.</p><p>one last thing: i made a little "fic's all posted" gifset for this and <a href="https://valleydean.tumblr.com/post/650724516044095488/a-ghost-story-a-deancas-au-by-emmbrancsxx0-now">posted it on my tumblr</a>, if anyone is interested in reblogging it to spread the word to those people who've been waiting to read until after the fic was..... all..... posted....</p><p>anyway! that's all. again, thanks for reading! writing about dean and cas getting the second chance they never got in canon was suuuper cathartic. and, speaking of which, i'm off to start the deranged task of writing my spn season 16 fic now!</p><p>see ya later.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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